• 


let 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


RAINY  WEEK 


RAINY  WEEK 


BY 

ELEANOR  HALLOWELL  ABBOTT 

AUTBom  OP  "OLD-DAD,"  "PEACE  OK  EARTH, 

8OOD-WIU,  TO   DOGS,"   ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

68 1  FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright,  1921, 
By  E.  P.  Button  &  Company 


All  Rights  Reserved 


PBTT7TED  IW  THE  UNITED 
STATES   OF  AMERICA 


RAINY    .WEEK 

CHAPTER  I 

IN  the  changes  and  chances  of  our  New 
England  climate  it  is  not  so  much  what 
a  Guest  can  endure  outdoors  as  what  he 
can  originate  indoors  that  endears  him  most 
to  a  weather-worried  Host. 

Take  Rollins,  for  instance,  a  small  man, 
dour,  insignificant — a  prude  in  the  moonlight, 
a  duffer  at  sailing,  a  fool  at  tennis — yet  once 
given  a  rain-patter  and  a  smoky  fireplace, 
of  an  audacity  so  impertinent,  so  altogether 
absurd,  that  even  yawns  must  of  necessity 
turn  to  laughter — or  curses.  The  historic 
thunderstorm  question,  for  instance,  which  he 
sprang  at  the  old  Bishop's  house-party  after 
five  sweltering  days  of  sunshine  and  ecclesias 
tical  argument:  "Who  was  the  last  person  you 
kissed  before  you  were  married?" 

A  question  innocent  as  milk  if  only  swal- 

I 

h 

+>  8G9885 


2  RAINY   WEEK 

lowed!  But  unswallowed?  Gurgled?  Spat 
like  venom  from  Bishop  to  Bishop?  And 
from  Bishop's  Wife  to  Bishop's  Wife?  Oh 
la!  Yet  that  Rollins  himself  was  the  only 
unmarried  person  present  on  that  momentous 
occasion  shows  not  at  all,  I  still  contend,  the 
slightest  "natural  mendacity"  of  the  man,  but 
merely  the  perfectly  normal  curiosity  of  a 
confirmed  Anchoret  to  learn  what  truths  he 
may  from  those  who  have  been  fortunate — or 
unfortunate  enough  to  live. 

Certainly  neither  my  Husband  nor  myself 
would  ever  dream  of  running  a  house-party 
without  Rollins! 

Yet  equally  certain  it  is  not  at  all  on 
Rollins 's  account  but  distinctly  on  our  own 
that  we  invariably  set  the  date  for  our  annual 
house-party  in  the  second  week  of  May. 

For  twenty  years,  in  the  particular  corner 
of  the  New  England  sea-coast  which  my  hus 
band  and  I  happen  to  inhabit,  it  has  never, 
with  one  single  exception  only,  failed  to  rain 
from  morning  till  night  and  night  till  morning 
again  through  the  second  week  of  May! 

With  all  weather-uncertainties  thus  settled 
perfectly  definitely,  even  for  the  worst,  it  is 
a  comparatively  easy  matter  for  any  Host 


RAINY   WEEK  3 

and  Hostess  to  Stage  such  events  as  remain. 
It  is  with  purely  confessional  intent  that  I 
emphasize  that  word  "stage."    Every  human 
being  acknowledges,  if  honest,  some  one  su 
preme   passion  of  existence.     My  Husband's 
and  mine   is  for  what  Highbrows   call   "the 
experimental  drama." 
We  call  it  "Amateur  Theatricals." 
Yet    even    this    innocent    passion    has    not 
proved  a  serene  one! 

After  inestimable  seasons  of  devotion  to  that 
most  ruthless  of  all  goddesses,  the  Goddess 
of  Amateur  Theatricals,  involving,  as  it  does, 
wrangles  with 

Guests  who  refuse  to  accept  unless  they  are 

assured  that  there  will  be  a  Play, 
wrangles  with 

Guests  who  refuse  to  accept  unless  assured 

that  there  will  not  be  a  Play, 
wrangles  with 

Guests  already  arrived,  unpacked,   tubbed, 
seated  at  dinner,  who  discover  suddenly 
that  their  lines  are  too  long, 
wrangles  with 

Guests  already  arrived,  unpacked,  tubbed, 
seated  at  dinner,  who  discover  equally 
suddenly  that  their  lines  are  too  short. 


4  RAINY   WEEK 

wrangles  with 

Guests  who  "can't  possibly  play  in  blue." 
wrangles  with 

Guests  who  "can't  possibly  play  in  pink." 
wrangles  with 

Guests  who  insist  npon  kissing  in  every  act. 
wrangles  with 

Guests  who  refuse  to  kiss  in  any  act,  it 
was  my  Husband's  ingenious  idea  to  organize 
instead  an  annual  Play  that  should  never 
dream  it  was  a  Play,  acted  by  actors  who 
never  even  remotely  suspected  that  they  were 
acting,  evolving  a  plot  that  no  one  but  the 
Almighty,  Himself,  could  possibly  foreordain. 

We  call  this  Play  "Rainy  Week." 

Yet,  do  not,  I  implore  you,  imagine  for  a 
moment  that  by  any  such  simple  little  trick 
as  shifting  all  blame  to  the  weather,  all  praise 
to  the  Almighty,  Care  has  been  eliminated 
from  the  enterprise. 

It  is  only  indeed  at  the  instigation  of  this 
trick  that  the  real  hazard  begins.  For  a  Play 
after  all  is  only  a  Play,  be  it  humorous,  amo 
rous,  murderous,  adulterous,  —  a  soap-bubble 
world  combusting  spontaneously  of  its  own 
effervescence.  But  life  is  life  and  starkly  real 
if  not  essentially  earnest.  And  the  merest 


RAINY   WEEK  5 

flicker  of  the  merest  eyelid  in  one  of  life's 
real  emotions  has  short-circuited  long  ere  this 
with  the  eternities  themselves!  It's  just  this 
chance  of  "short-circuiting  with  the  eternities" 
that  shifts  the  pucker  from  a  Host's  brow  to 
his  spine! 

No  lazy,  purring,  reunion  of  old  friends 
this  Rainy  Week  of  ours,  you  understand? 
No  dully  congenial  convocation  of  in-bred  rela 
tives?  No  conference  on  literature, — music, 
— painting?  No  symposium  of  embroidery 
stitches?  Nor  of  billiard  shots?  But  the  delib 
erate  and  relentlessly-planned  assemblage  of 
such  distinctly  diverse  types  of  men  and  women 
as  prodded  by  unusual  conditions  of  weather, 
domicile,  and  propinquity,  will  best  act  and 
re-act  upon  each  other  in  terms  inevitably  dra 
matic,  though  most  naively  unrehearsed ! 

"Vengeance  is  mine !"  said  the  Lord.  "Very 
considerable  psychologic,  as  well  as  dramatic 
satisfaction  is  now  at  last  ours!"  confess  your 
humble  servants. 

In  this  very  sincere  if  somewhat  whimsical 
dramatic  adventure  of  Rainy  Week,  the  ex 
igencies  of  our  household  demand  that  the 
number  of  actors  shall  be  limited  to  eight. 

Barring  the  single  exception   of   Husband 


6  RAINY   WEEK 

and  Wife  no  two  people  are  invited  who  have 
ever  seen  each  other  before.  Destiny  plays 
very  much  more  interesting  tricks  we  have 
noticed  with  perfect  strangers  than  she  does 
with  perfect  friends! 

Barring  nothing  no  one  is  ever  warned 
that  the  week  will  be  rainy.  It  is  astonish 
ing  how  a  guest's  personality  strips  itself 
right  down  to  the  bare  sincerities  when  he  is 
forced  unexpectedly  to  doff  his  extra-selected, 
super-fitting,  ultra-becoming  visiting  clothes 
for  a  frankly  nondescript  costume  chosen  only 
for  its  becomingness  to  a  —  situation !  In 
this  connection,  however,  it  is  only  fair  to 
ourselves  to  attest  that  following  the  usual 
managerial  custom  of  furnishing  from  its 
own  pocket  such  costumes  as  may  not  for 
bizarre  or  historical  reasons  be  readily  re 
converted  by  a  cast  to  street  and  church 
wear,  we  invariably  provide  the  Rainy  Week 
costumes  for  our  cast.  This  costume  con 
sists  of  one  yellow  oil-<skin  suit  or  "slicker," 
one  yellow  oil-skin  hat,  one  pair  of  rubber 
boots.  One  dark  blue  jersey.  And  very  warm 
woolen  stockings. 

Eeverting  also  to  dramatic  sincerity  no  pro 
fessional  manager  certainly  ever  chose  his 


RAINY   WEEK  7 

cast  more  conscientiously  than  does  my  purely 
whimsical  Husband! 

After  several  years  of  experiment  and  re 
adjustment  the  ultimate  cast  of  Rainy  Week 
is  fixed  as  follows: 

A  Bride  and  Groom 

One  Very  Celibate  Person 

Someone  With  a  Past 

Someone  With  a  Future 

A  Singing  Voice 

A  May  Girl 

And  a  Bore.  (Rollins,  of  course,  figuring 
as  the  Bore.) 

Always  there  must  be  that  Bride  and  Groom 
(for  the  Celibate  Person  to  wonder  about). 
And  the  Very  Celibate  Person  (for  the  Bride 
and  Groom  to  wonder  about).  Male  or  Fe 
male,  one  Brave  Soul  who  had  Eebuilt  Ruin. 
Male  or  Female,  one  Intrepid  Brain  that 
Dares  to  Boast  of  Having  Made  Tryst  with 
the  Future.  Soprano,  Alto,  Bass  or  Tenor, 
one  Singing  Voice  that  can  Rip  the  Basting 
Threads  out  of  Serenity.  One  Young  Girl  so 
May-Blossomy  fresh  and  new  that  Everybody 
Instinctively  Changes  the  Subject  When  She 
Comes  into  the  Room.  .  .  .  And  Rollins! 

To  be  indeed  absolutely  explicit  experience 


8  RAINY   WEEK 

has  proved,  with  an  almost  chemical  accuracy, 
that,  quite  regardless  of  "age,  sex,  or  previ 
ous  condition  of  servitude,"  this  particular 
combination  of 

Romantic   Passion 

Psychic  Austerity 

Tragedy 

Ambition 

Poignancy 

Innocence 

And  Irritation 

cannot  be  housed  together  for  even  one  Eainy 
Week  without  producing  drama! 

But  whether  that  drama  be  farce  or  fury — ? 
Whether  he  who  came  to  star  remains  to  supe? 
Who  yet  shall  prove  the  hero?  And  who  the 
villain!  Who—?  Oh,  la!  It's  God's  busi 
ness  now! 

"All  the  more  reason,"  affirms  my  Hus 
band,  "why  all  such  details  as  light  and  color 
effects,  eatments,  drinkments  and  guest-room 
reading  matter  should  be  attended  to  with 
extra  conscientiousness." 

Already  through  a  somewhat  sensational 
motor  collision  in  the  gay  October  Berkshires 
we  had  acquired  the  tentative  Bride  and 


RAINY   WEEK  9 

Groom,  Paul  Brenswick  and  Victoria  Mere 
dith,  as  ardent  and  unreasonable  a  pair  of 
young  lovers  as  ever  rose  unscathed  from  a 
shivered  racing  car  to  face,  instead  of  anni 
hilation,  a  mere  casual  separation  of  months 
until  such  May-time  as  Paul  himself,  returning 
from  Heaven  knows  what  errand  in  China, 
should  mate  with  her  and  meet  with  us. 

And  to  New  York  City,  of  course,  one  would 
turn  instinctively  for  the  Someone  With  a 
Future.  At  a  single  round  of  studio  parties 
in  the  brief  Thanksgiving  Holiday  we  found 
Claude  Kennilworth.  Not  a  moment's  dissen 
sion  occurred  between  us  concerning  his  ab 
solute  fitness  for  the  part.  He  was  beautiful 
to  look  at,  and  not  too  young,  twenty-five 
perhaps,  the  approximate  age  of  our  tenta 
tive  Bride  and  Groom.  And  he  made  things 
with  his  hands  in  dough,  clay,  plaster,  any 
thing  he  could  reach  very  insolently,  all  the 
time  you  were  talking  to  him,  modeling  the 
thing  he  was  thinking  about,  instead! 

"Oh,  just  wait  till  you  see  him  in  bronze?" 
thrilled  all  the  young  Satellites  around  him. 

* '  Till  you  see  me  in  bronze ! ' '  thrilled  young 
Kennilworth  himself. 

Never  in  all  my  life  have  I  beheld  anyone 


10  RAINY   WEEK 

as  beautiful  as  Claude  Kennilworth — with  a 
bit  of  brag  in  him!  That  head  sharply  up 
lifted,  the  pony-like  forelock  swished  like 
smoke  across  his  flaming  eyes,  the  sudden 
wild  pulse  of  his  throat.  Heavens!  What  a 
boy! 

"You  artist-fellows  are  forever  reproducing 
solids  with  liquids, "  remarked  my  Husband 
quite  casually.  "All  the  effects  I  mean!  All 
the  illusion !  Crag  or  cathedral  out  of  a  dime- 
sized  mud-puddle  in  your  water-color  box! 
Flesh  you  could  kiss  from  a  splash  of  tur 
pentine!  But  can  you  reproduce  liquids  with 
solids?  Could  you  put  the  ocean  into  bronze, 
I  mean?" 

"The  ocean?"  screamed  the  Satellites. 

"No  mere  skinny  bas-relief,"  mused  my 
Husband,  "of  the  front  of  a  wave  hitched  to 
the  front  of  a  wharf  or  the  front  of  a  beach 
but  waves  corporeally  complete  and  all  alone 
— shoreless — skyless — like  the  model  of  a  vil 
lage — an  ocean  rolling  all  alone  as  it  were 
in  the  bulk  of  its  three  dimensions?" 

"In  —  bronze?"  questions  young  Kennil 
worth.  "Bronze?"  His  voice  was  very  faint 
ly  raspish. 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  a  blue  ocean  especially  that 


RAINY   WEEK  11 

I  was  thinking  about,"  confided  my  Husband, 
genially,  through  the  mist  of  his  cigarette. 
"Any  chance  pick-up  acquaintance  has  seen 
the  ocean  when  it's  blue.  But  my  wife  and 
I,  you  understand,  we  live  with  the  ocean! 
Call  it  by  its  first  name, — 'Oh  Ocean!' — and 
all  that  sort  of  thing ! ' '  he  smiled  out  abruptly 
above  the  sudden  sharp  spurt  of  a  freshly- 
struck  match.  "The — the  ocean  I  was  think 
ing  of,"  he  resumed  with  an  almost  exag 
gerated  monotone,  "was  a  brown  ocean  — 
brown  as  boiled  sea-weeds — mad  as  mud  under 
a  leaden  sky  —  seething  —  souring  —  perfectly 
lustreless — every  brown  billow-top  pinched- 
up  as  though  by  some  malevolent  hand  into  a 
vivid  verdigris  bruise " 

"But  however  in  the  world  would  one  know 
where  to  begin?"  giggled  the  Satellites.  "Or 
how  to  break  it  off  so  it  wouldn't  end  like  the 
edge  of  a  tin  roof  I  Even  if  you  started  all 
right  with  a  nice  molten  wave?  What  about 
the — last  wave?  The  problem  of  the  horizon 
sense?  Yes!  What  about  the  horizon  sense?" 
shouted  everybody  at  once. 

From  the  shadowy  sofa-pillowed  corner  just 
behind  the  supper  table,  young  Kennilworth's 
face  glowed  suddenly  into  view.  But  a  minute 


12  RAINY   WEEK 

before  I  could  have  sworn  that  a  girl's  cheek 
lay  against  his.  Yet  now  as  he  jumped  to  his 
feet  the  feminine  glove  that  dropped  from  his 
fidgety  fingers  was  twisted  with  extraordinary 
maliciousness,  I  noted,  into  a  doll-sized  carica 
ture  of  a  "Vamp.J 

"I  could  put  the  ocean  into  bronze,  Mr. 
Delville,"  he  said,  "if  anybody  would  give  me 
a  chance!" 

Perhaps  it  was  just  this  very  ease  and  ex 
citement  of  having  booked  anyone  as  perfect 
as  young  Kennilworth  for  the  part  of  Some 
one  with  a  Future  that  made  me  act  as  im 
pulsively  as  I  did  regarding  Ann  Woltor. 

We  were  sitting  in  our  room  in  a  Washing 
ton  hotel  before  a  very  smoky  fireplace  one 
rather  cross  night  in  late  January  when  I 
confided  the  information  to  my  Husband. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Jack,"  I  said  quite  ab 
ruptly,  "I've  invited  Ann  Woltor  for  Rainy 
Week." 

"Invited  whom?"  questioned  my  Husband 
above  the  rim  of  his  newspaper. 

"Ann  Woltor,"  I  repeated. 

"Ann — what?"  persisted  my  Husband. 

"Ann  Woltor,"  I  re-emphasized. 


RAINY  WEEK  13 

"Who's  she?"  quickened  my  Husband's  in 
terest  very  faintly. 

"Oh,  she's  a  woman,"  I  explained — "or  a 
girl — that  I've  been  meeting  'most  every  day 
this  last  month  at  my  hair-dresser's.  She 
runs  the  accounts  there  or  something  and  tries 
to  keep  everybody  pacified.  And  reads  the 
darndest  books,  all  highbrow  stuff.  You'd 
hardly  expect  it!  Oh,  not  modern  highbrow, 
I  mean,  essays  as  bawdy  as  novels,  but  the 
old,  serene  highbrow, — Emerson  and  Pater 
and  Wordsworth, — books  that  smell  of  soap 
and  lavender,  as  well  as  brains.  Beads  'em 
as  though  she  liked  'em,  I  mean !  Comes  from 
New  Zealand  I've  been  told.  Really,  she's 
rather  remarkable!" 

"Must  be!"  said  my  Husband.  "To  come 
all  the  way  from  New  Zealand  to  land  in  your 
hair-dresser's  library!" 

"It  isn't  my  hair-dresser's  library!"  I  cor 
rected  with  faint  asperity.  "It's  her  own 
library!  She  brings  the  books  herself  to  the 
office. 

"And  just  what  part,"  drawled  my  Hus 
band,  "is  this  New  Zealand  paragon,  Miss 
Stoltor,  to  play  in  our  Rainy  Week?" 


14  RAINY   WEEK 

"Woltor,"  I  corrected  quite  definitely. 
"Ann  Woltor." 

"Wardrobe  mistress?"  teased  my  Husband. 
"Or—  V9 

"She  is  going  to  play  the  part  of  the  Some 
one  With  a  Past,"  I  said. 

"What?"  cried  my  Husband.  His  face  was 
frankly  shocked.  "What?"  he  repeated  blank 
ly.  "The  most  delicate  part  of  the  cast? 
The  most  difficult?  The  most  hazardous?  It 
seemed  best  to  you,  without  consultation, 
without  argument,  to  act  so  suddenly  in  the 
matter,  and  so — so  all  alone?" 

"I  had  to  act  very  suddenly,"  I  admitted. 
"If  I  hadn't  spoken  just  exactly  the  minute 
I  did  she  would  have  been  off  to  Alaska 
within  another  forty-eight  hours." 

"U — m — m,"  mused  my  Husband,  and  re 
sumed  his  reading.  But  the  half-inch  of  eye 
brow  that  puckered  above  the  edge  of  his 
newspaper  loomed  definitely  as  the  sample  of 
a  face  that  was  still  distinctly  shocked. 

When  he  spoke  again  I  was  quite  ready  for 
his  question. 

"How  do  you  know  that  this  Ann  Woltor 
has  got  a  past?"  he  demanded. 


RAINY  WEEK  15 

"How  do  we  know  young  Kennilworth 's 
got  a  future?"  I  counter-checked. 

1  'Because  he  makes  so  much  noise  about  it 
I  suppose,"  admitted  my  Husband. 

"By  which  very  same  method,"  I  grinned, 
"I  deduct  the  fact  fhat  Ann  Woltor  has  got  a 
past, — inasmuch  as  she  doesn't  make  the  very 
slightest  sound  whatsoever  concerning  it." 

"You  concede  no  personal  reticence  in  the 
world?"  quizzed  my  Husband. 

"Yes,  quite  a  good  deal,"  I  admitted.  "But 
most  of  it  I  honestly  believe  is  due  to  sore 
throat.  A  normal  throat  keeps  itself  pretty 
much  lubricated  IVe  noticed  by  talking  about 
itself." 

"Herself,"  corrected  my  Husband. 

"Himself,"  I  compromised. 

"But  this  Ann  Woltor  has  told  you  that 
she  came  from  New  Zealand,"  scored  my  Hus 
band. 

"Oh,  no,  she  hasn't!"  I  contradicted.  "It 
was  the  hair-dresser  who  suggested  New 
Zealand.  All  Ann  Woltor  has  ever  told  me 
was  that  she  was  going  to  Alaska!  Any 
body's  willing  to  tell  you  where  he's  going! 
But  the  person  who  never  tells  you  where  he's 
been — !  The  person  who  never  by  word,  deed 


16  RAINY   WEEK 

or  act  correlates  to-day  with  yesterday!  The 
Here  with  the  There — !  IVe  been  home  with 
her  twice  to  her  room!  IVe  watched  her 
unpack  the  Alaska  trunk!  Not  a  thing  in  it 
older  than  this  winter!  Not  a  shoe  nor  a 
hat  nor  a  glove  that  confides  anything!  No 
scent  of  fir-balsam  left  over  from  a  summer 
vacation!  No  photograph  of  sister  or 
brother!  Yet  it's  rather  an  interesting  little 
room,  too, — awfully  small  and  shabby  after 
the  somewhat  plushy  splendor  of  the  hair- 
dressing  job — but  three  or  four  really  erudite 
English  Reviews  on  the  table,  a  sprig  of  blue 
larkspur  thrust  rather  negligently  into  a  water 
glass,  and  a  man's " 

"Blue  larkspur  in — January?"  demanded 
my  Husband.  "How — how  old  is  this — this 
Woltor  person?" 

"Oh — twenty-five,  perhaps,"  I  shrugged. 

With  a  gesture  of  impatience  my  Husband 
threw  down  his  paper  and  began  to  poke  the 
fire. 

"Oh,  Pshaw!"  he  said,  "is  our  whole  dra 
matic  endeavor  going  to  be  wrecked  by  the 
monotony  of  everybody  being  'twenty-five"?" 

"Well— call  it  ' thirty-five'  if  you'd  rather," 
I  conceded.  "Or  a  hundred  and  five!  Arm 


RAINY   WEEK  17 

Woltor  wouldn't  care!  That's  the  remarkable 
thing  about  her  face,"  I  hastened  with  some 
fervor  to  explain.  "There's  no  dating  on  it! 
This  calamity  that  has  happened  to  her, — 
whatever  it  is,  has  wrung  her  face  perfectly 
dry  of  all  contributive  biography  except  the 
mere  structural  fact  of  at  least  reasonably 
conservative  birth  and  breeding." 

A  little  bit  abruptly  my  Husband  dropped 
the  fire-tongs. 

"You  like  this  Ann  Woltor,  don't  you?" 
he  said. 

"I  like  her  tremendously,"  I  acknowledged. 

"Tremendously  as  a  person  and  tremen 
dously  for  the  part!"  I  insisted. 

"Tremendously  as  a  person  and  tremend 
ously  for  the  part!"  I  insisted. 

"Yet  there's  something  about  it  that  wor 
ries  you?"  quizzed  my  Husband  not  unami- 
ably. 

"There  is,"  I  said,  "just  one  thing.  She's 
got  a  broken  tooth." 

With  a  gesture  of  real  irritation  my  Hus 
band  sank  down  in  his  chair  again  and 
snatched  up  the  paper. 

It  was  ten  minutes  before  he  spoke  again. 


18  RAINY   WEEK 

"Is  it  a  front  tooth? "  he  questioned  with 
out  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  page. 

"It  is,"  I  said. 

When  my  Husband  jumped  up  from  his 
chair  this  time  he  showed  no  sign  at  all  of 
ever  intending  to  return  to  it.  As  he  reached 
for  his  hat  and  coat  and  started  for  the  door, 
he  tried  very  hard  to  grin.  But  the  effort 
was  poor.  This  was  no  mere  marital  dis 
agreement,  but  a  real  professional  shock. 

"I  simply  can't  stand  it,"  he  grinned. 
"One's  prepared,  of  course,  for  a  tragedy 
queen  to  sport  a  broken  heart — but  when  it 
comes  to  a  broken  tooth !" 

"Wait  till  you  see  her!"  I  said.  There  was 
nothing  else  to  say.  "Wait  till  you  see  her!" 

Even  with  the  door  closed  behind  him  he 
came  back  once  more  to  tell  me  how  he  felt. 

"Oh!"  he  shivered.    "0— H!" 

Truly  if  we  hadn't  gone  out  together  the 
very  next  day  and  found  George  Keets  I 
don't  know  what  would  have  happened.  De 
pression  still  hung  very  heavily  over  my  Hus 
band's  heart. 

"Here  it  is  almost  February,"  he  brooded, 
"and  even  with  what  we've  got,  we're  still 


RAINY   WEEK  19 

short  the  Celibate  and  the  Singing  Voice  and 
the  May  Girl." 

It  was  just  then  that  we  turned  the  street 
corner  and  met  George  Keets. 

"Why — why  the  Celibate — of  all  persons!" 
we  both  gasped  as  in  a  single  breath,  and 
rushed  upon  him. 

Now  it  may  seem  a  little  strange  instead 
of  this  that  we  have  never  thought  to  feature 
poor  Rollins  as  the  Celibate.  To  "double" 
him  as  it  were  as  Celibate  and  Bore.  Con 
serving  thereby  one  by  no  means  inexpensive 
outfit  of  water  -  proof  clothes,  twenty  -  one 
meals,  a  week's  wash,  and  Heaven  knows  how 
many  rounds  of  Scotch  at  a  time  of  imminent 
drought.  But  Eollins — though  as  far  as  any 
body  knows,  a  bachelor  and  eminently  chaste — 
is  by  no  means  my  idea  of  a  Celibate.  Oh, 
not  Rollins!  Not  anybody  with  a  mind  like 
Rollins!  For  Rollins,  poor  dear,  would 
marry  every  day  in  the  week  if  anybody 
would  have  him.  It's  the  "other  people" 
who  have  kept  Rollins  virgin.  But  George 
Keets  on  the  other  hand  is  a  good  deal  of 
a  "fascinator"  in  spite  of  his  austerity, 
perhaps  indeed  because  of  his  austerity, 
tall,  lean,  good-looking,  extravagantly  severe, 


20  RAINY   WEEK 

thirty-eight  years  old,  and  a  classmate  of  my 
Husband  at  college.  Whether  Life  would  ever 
succeed  or  not  in  breaking  down  his  unac 
countable  intention  never-to-mate,  that  inten 
tion, — physical,  mental,  moral,  psychic,  call  it 
whatever  you  choose, — was  stamped  indelibly 
and  for  all  time  on  the  curiously  incongruous 
granite-like  finish  of  his  originally  delicate 
features.  Life  had  at  least  done  interesting 
historical  things  to  George  Keets's  face. 

"Oh,  George!"  cried  my  Husband,  "I 
thought  you  were  in  Egypt  digging  mum 
mies/' 

"I  was,"  admitted  George  without  any  fur 
ther  palaver  of  greeting. 

"When  did  you  get  back?"  cried  my  Hus 
band,  "And  what  are  you  doing  now!" 

"And  where  are  you  going  to  be  in  May?" 
I  interposed  with  perfectly  uncontrollable  in 
terest. 

"Why,  I'm  just  off  the  boat,  you  know," 
brightened  George.  "A  drink  would  be  good, 
of  course.  But  first  I'd  just  like  to  run  into 
the  library  for  -a  minute  to  see  if  they've  put 
in  any  new  thrillers  while  I've  been  gone. 
There's  a  corking  new  book  on  Archselurus 
that  ought  to  be  due  about  now." 


RAINY   WEEK  21 

"On  w-what?"  I  stammered. 

"Oh,  fossil  cats,  you  know,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,"  explained  George  chivalrously. 
"But,  of  course  —  you,  Mrs.  Delville,"  he 
hastened  now  to  appease  me,  "would  heaps 
rather  hear  about  Paris  fashions,  I  know.  So 
if  you-people  really  should  want  me  in  May 
I'll  try  my  best,  I  promise  you,  to  remem 
ber  every  latest  wrinkle  of  lace,  or  feather. 
Only,  of  course,"  he  explained  with  typical 
conscientiousness,  "in  the  museums  and  the 
libraries  one  doesn't  see  just — of  course — 
the " 

"On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Keats,"  I  inter 
rupted  hectically,  "there  is  no  subject  in  the 
world  that  interests  me  more — at  the  moment 
— than  Mummies.  And  by  the  second  week 
in  May  that  interest  will  have  assumed  pro 
portions  that " 

"S-sh!"  admonished  niy  Husband.  "But 
really,  George,"  he  himself  hastened  to  cut 
in,  "if  you  could  come  to  us  the  second  week 
in  May " 

"May?"  considered  George.  "Second  week? 
Why,  certainly  I  will."  And  bolted  for  the 
library,  while  my  Husband  and  I  in  a  per- 


22  RAINY  WEEK 

fectly  irresistible  impulse  drew  aside  on  the 
curbing  to  watch  him  disappear. 

Equally  unexplainably  three  totally  non-con 
cerned  women  turned  also  to  watch  him. 

"It's  his  shoulders,"  I  ventured.  "The 
amazing  virility  of  his  shoulders  contrasted 
with  the  stinginess  of  his  smile." 

"Stinginess  nothing!"  snapped  my  Hus 
band.  "Devil  take  him!" 

"He  may — yet,"  I  mused  as  we  swung  into 
step  again. 

So  now  we  had  nothing  to  worry  about — 
or  rather  no  uncertainty  to  worry  about  ex 
cept  the  May  Girl  and  the  Singing  Voice. 

"The  Singing  Voice,"  my  Husband  argued, 
"might  be  picked  up  by  good  fortune  at  most 
any  cabaret  show  or  choral  practise.  Not 
any  singing  voice  would  do,  of  course.  It 
must  be  distinctly  poignant.  But  even  poig 
nancy  may  be  found  sometimes  where  you 
least  expect  it,  —  some  reasonably  mature, 
faintly  disappointed  sort  of  voice,  usually,  lilt 
ing  with  unquestionable  loveliness,  just  this 
side  of  real  professional  success. 

"But  where  in  the  world  should  we  find  a 
really  ingenuous  Ingenue?" 

"They  don't  exist  any  more!"  I  asserted. 


RAINY   WEEK  23 

"Gone  out  of  style  like  the  Teddy  Bear! — 
Old  Ingenues  yon  see,  of  conrse,  sometimes, 
sweet  and  precious  and  limp — as  old  Teddy 
Bears.  But  a  brand  new  Ingenue — ?  Don't 
you  remember  the  awful  search  we  had  last 
year  and  even  then ?" 

" Maybe  you're  right,''  worried  my  Hus 
band. 

And  then  the  horrid  attack  of  neuralgia 
descended  on  poor  Mr.  Husband  so  suddenly, 
so  acutely,  that  we  didn't  worry  at  all  about 
anything  else  for  days!  And  even  when  that 
worry  was  over,  instead  of  starting  off  gaily 
together  for  the  Carolinas  as  we  had  intend 
ed,  to  search  through  steam-heated  corridors, 
and  green  velvet  golfways,  and  jessamine 
scented  lanes,  for  the  May  Girl,  my  poor 
Husband  had  to  dally  at  home  instead,  in  a 
very  cold,  slushy  and  disagreeable  city,  to  be 
X-rayed,  tooth-pulled,  ear- stabbed,  and  every 
thing  but  Bertilloned,  while  I,  for  certain 
business  reason,  went  on  ahead  to  meet  the 
Spring. 

But  even  at  parting  it  was  the  dramatic 
anxiety  that  worried  my  Husband  most. 

"Now,  don't  you  dare  do  a  thing  this 
time,"  he  warned  me,  "until  I  come!  Look 


24  RAINY   WEEK 

around  all  yon  want  to!  Get  acquainted! 
Size  things  up !  But  if  ever  two  people  needed 
to  work  together  in  a  matter  it's  in  this  ques 
tion  of  choosing  a  May  Girl!" 

Whereupon  in  an  impulse  quite  as  amazing 
to  himself  as  to  me — he  went  ahead  and  chose 
the  May  Girl  all  by  himself! 

Before  I  had  been  in  the  Carolinas  three 
days  the  telegram  came. 

"Have  found  May  Girl.  Success  beyond 
wildest  dreams.  Doubles  with  Singing 
Voice.  Absolute  miracle.  Explanations." 

Himself  and  the  explanations  arrived  a  week 
later.  Himself,  poor  dear,  was  rather  de 
pleted.  But  the  explanations  were  full  enough 
to  have  pleased  anybody. 

He  had  been  waiting,  it  seems,  on  the  day 
of  the  discovery,  an  interminably  long  time  in 
the  doctor's  office.  All  around  him,  in  the 
dinginess  and  general  irritability  of  such  an 
occasion,  loomed  the  bulky  shapes  of  other 
patients  who  like  himself  had  also  been  wait 
ing  interminable  eons  of  time.  Everybody  was 
very  cross.  And  it  was  snowing  outside, — one 
of  those  dirty  gray  late-winter  snows  that 
don't  seem  really  necessary. 


RAINY   WEEK  25 

And  when  She  came!  Just  a  girl's  laugh  at 
first  from  the  street  door!  An  impish  prance 
of  feet  down  the  dark,  unaccustomed  hallway! 
A  little  trip  on  the  threshold!  And  then 
personified  —  laughing  —  blushing,  stumbling 
fairly  headlong  at  last  into  the  room  —  the 
most  radiantly  lovely  young  girl  that  you  have 
ever  had  the  grace  to  imagine,  dangling  ex 
ultantly  from  each  frost-pinked  hand  a  very 
large,  wriggly,  and  exceedingly  astonished 
rabbit. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Charles!"  she  began,  "s-ee 
what  I've  found!  And  in  an  ash-barrel,  too! 
In — a — "  She  blinked  the  snow  from  her 
lashes,  took  a  sudden  startled  glance  round 
the  room,  another  at  the  clock,  and  collapsed 
with  confusion  into  the  first  chair  that  she 
could  reach. 

A  very  tall  "little  girl"  she  was,  and  very 
young,  not  a  day  more  than  eighteen  surely. 
And  even  in  the  encompassing  bulk  of  her  big 
coon-skin  coat  with  its  broad  arms  hugging 
the  brown  rabbits  to  her  breast  she  gave  an 
impression  of  extraordinary  slimness  and  del 
icacy,  an  impression  accentuated  perhaps  by  a 
slender  silk-stockinged  ankle,  the  frilly  cuff  of 
a  white  sleeve,  and  the  aura  of  pale  gold  hair 


26  RAINY   WEEK 

that  radiated  in  every  direction  from  the  brim 
of  her  coon-skin  hat.  For  fully  fifteen  minutes 
my  Husband  said  she  sat  huddled-up  in  all 
the  sweet  furry  confusion  of  a  young  animal, 
till  driven  apparently  by  that  very  confusion 
to  essay  some  distinctly  normal-appearing, 
every-day  gesture,  she  reached  out  impulsively 
to  the  reading  table  and  picked  up  a  book 
which  some  young  man  had  just  relinquished 
rather  suddenly  at  a  summons  to  the  doctor's 
inner  office.  Relaxing  ever  so  slightly  into  the 
depths  of  her  chair  with  the  bunnies'  noses 
twinkling  contentedly  to  the  rhythm  of  her 
own  breathing,  she  made  a  wonderful  picture, 
line,  color,  spirit,  everything  of  Youth.  Read 
ing,  with  that  strange,  extra,  inexplainable 
touch  of  the  sudden  little  pucker  in  the  eye 
brows,  sheer  intellectual  perplexity  was  in  .that 
pucker ! 

But  when  the  young  man  returned  from 
the  inner  office  he  did  not  leave  at  once  as 
every  cross,  irritable  person  in  the  room 
hoped  that  he  would,  but  fidgeted  around 
instead  with  hat  and  coat,  stamped  up  and 
down  crowding  other  people's  feet,  and  el 
bowing  other  people's  elbows.  With  a  gaspy 
glance  at  his  watch  he  turned  suddenly  on  the 


RAINY   WEEK  27 

girl  with  the  rabbits.  "Excuse  me,"  he 
floundered,  "but  I  have  to  catch  a  train — 
please  may  I  have  my  book?" 

"Your  book?"  deprecated  the  Girl.  Con 
fusion  anew  overwhelmed  her!  "Your — book? 
Why,  I  beg  your  pardon!  Why  —  why — " 
Pink  as  a  rose  she  slammed  the  covers  and 
glanced  for  the  first  time  at  the  title.  The 
title  of  the  book  was  "What  Every  Young 
Husband  Should  Know."  .  .  .  With  a  sigh 
like  the  sigh  of  a  breeze  in  the  ferns  the  ten 
sion  of  the  room  relaxed!  A  very  fat,  cross- 
looking  woman  in  black  satin  ripped  audibly 
at  a  side  seam.  ...  A  frail  old  gentleman 
who  really  had  very  few  laughs  left,  wasted 
one  of  .them  in  the  smothering  depths  of  his 
big  black-bordered  handkerchief.  .  .  .  The  lame 
newsboy  on  the  stool  by  the  door  emitted  a 
single  snort  of  joy.  Then  the  doctor  himself 
loomed  suddenly  from  the  inner  office,  and 
started  right  through  everybody  to  the  girl 
with  the  rabbits.  "Why,  May,"  he  laughed, 
"I  told  you  not  to  get  here  till  four  o'clock!" 

"Oh,  not  'May.'?"  I  protested  to  my  Hus 
band.  "It  simply  couldn't  be!  Not  really?" 

"Yes,  really,"  affirmed  my  Husband.  "Isn't 
it  the  limit?  But  wait  till  you  hear  the  rest! 


28  RAINY  WEEK 

She's  Dr.  Brawne's  ward,  it  seems,  and  has 
been  visiting  him  for  the  winter.  .  .  .  Comes 
from  some  little  place  way  off  somewheres.  .  .  . 
And  she's  got  one  of  those  sweet,  clear,  ab 
solutely  harrowing  'boy  soprano*  types  of 
voices  that  sound  like  incense  and  altar  lights 
even  in  rag- time.  But  weirder  than  any 
thing — "  triumphed  my  Husband. 

"Oh,  not  than  'anything'?"  I  gasped. 

"But  weirder  than  anything,"  persisted  my 
Husband,  "is  the  curious  way  she's  marked." 

"M-marked?"  I  stammered. 

"Yes.  After  I  saw  her  with  her  hat  off," 
said  my  Husband,  "I  saw  the  'mark.'  I've 
seen  it  in  boys  before,  but  never  in  a  girl— 
an  absolutely  isolated  streak  of  gray  hair !  In 
all  that  riot  of  blondness  and  sparkle  and 
youth,  just  as  riotous,  just  as  lovely,  a 
streak  of  gray  hair!  It's  bewitching!  Be 
wildering!  Like  May  itself!  Now  sunshine! 
Now  cloud!  You'll  write  to  her  immediately, 
won't  you?"  he  begged.  "And  to  Dr.  Brawne, 
too?  I  told  Dr.  Brawne  quite  frankly  that  it 
was  going  to  be  rather  an  experimental  party, 
but  that,  of  course,  we'd  take  the  best  possible 
care  of  her.  And  he  said  he'd  never  seen  an 
occasion  yet  when  she  wasn't  perfectly  capable 


RAINY  WEEK  29 

of  taking  care  of  herself.  And  that  he'd  be 
delighted  to  have  her  come — "  laughed  my 
Husband  quite  suddenly,  "if  we  were  sure 
that  we  didn't  mind  animals." 

"Animals?"  I  questioned. 

"Yes,  dogs,  cats,  birds!"  explained  my 
Husband.  "It  isn't  apt  to  be  a  large  animal 
such  as  a  horse  or  a  cow,  Dr.  Brawne  was  kind 
enough  to  assure  me.  But  he  never  knew  her  yet, 
he  said,  to  arrive  anywhere  without  a  guinea 
pig,  squirrel,  broken-winged  bat,  lame  dove, 
or  half-choked  mouse  that  she  had  acquired 
on  the  way!  She's  very  tender-hearted.  And 
younger  than " 

Blankly  for  a  moment  my  Husband  and  I 
sat  staring  into  each  other's  eyes.  Then,  quite 
impulsively,  I  reached  over  and  kissed  him. 

"Oh,  Jack,"  I  admitted,  "it's  too  perfect! 
Truly  it  makes  me  feel  nervous! — Suppose 
she  should  roll  her  hoop  off  the  cliff  or " 

"Or — blow  out  the  gas!"  chuckled  my  Hus 
band. 

So  yon  see  now  our  cast  wa>s  all  assembled. 

Eadiant,  "runctious,"  impatient  Paul 
Brenswick  and  Victoria  Meredith  for  the 
Bride  and  Groom. 

George  Keets  for  the  Very  Celibate  Person. 


30  RAINY   WEEK 

Ann  Woltor  for  the  Someone  With,  a  Past. 

Claude  Kennilworth  for  the  Someone  With 
a  Future. 

May  Davies  for  the  May  Girl  and  the  Sing 
ing  Voice. 

And  Eollins  for  the  Bore.  About  Eollins  I 
must  now  confess  that  I  have  not  been  per 
fectly  frank.  We  hire  Rollins!  How  else 
could  we  control  him!  Even  with  a  mush 
room  mind  like  his, — fruiting  only  in  bad 
weather,  one  can't  force  him  on  one's  guests 
morning,  noon,  and  night!  Very  fortunately 
here,  for  such  strategy  as  is  necessary,  my 
Husband  concedes  one  further  weakness  than 
what  I  have  previously  designated  as  his  pas 
sion  for  amateur  theatricals  and  his  tolerance 
of  me.  That  weakness  is  sea  shells — mol- 
lusca,  you  know,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  .  .  . 
From  all  over  the  world,  smelling  saltily  of 
coral  and  palms,  iceberg  or  arctic,  —  and 
only  too  often  alas  of  their  dead  selves, 
these  smooth-spikey-pink-blue-yellow-or-mot- 
tled  shells  arrive  with  maddening  frequency. 
And  Eollins  is  a  born  cataloguer!  What 
easier  thing  in  the  world  to  say  than,  "Oh, 
by  the  way,  Eollins,  old  man,  here's  an  invoice 
that  might  interest  you  from  a  Florida  Key 


RAINY   WEEK  31 

that  I've  just  located.  .  .  .  How  about  the  sec 
ond  week  in  May?  Could  you  come  then,  do 
you  think?  I'm  all  tied  up  to  be  sure  with  a 
houseful  of  guests  that  week,  but  they  won't 
bother  you  any.  And,  at  least,  you'll  have 
your  evenings  for  fun.  Clothes'?  Haven't 
got  'em?  Oh,  Pshaw!  Let  me  see.  It  rained 
last  year,  didn't  it?  ...  Well,  I  guess  we  can 
raise  the  same  umbrella  that  we  raised  for 
you  then!  S'long!" 

Everything  settled  then!  Everything  ready 
but  the  springtime  and  the  scenery!  .  .  .  And 
God  Himself  at  work  on  that! — Hist!  What 
is  it?  The  flash  of  a  blue-bird? 

A  bell  tinkles!  A  pulley-rope  creaks!  And 
the  Curtain  Kises! 

May  always  comes  so  amazingly  soon  after 
February!  So  infinitely  much  sooner  than 
anyone  dares  hope  that  it  would!  Peering 
into  snow-smeared  shop  windows  some  rather 
particularly  bleak  morning  you  notice  with  a 
half-contemptuous  sort  of  amusement  a  pre 
cocious  display  of  ginghams  and  straw  hats. 
And  before  you  can  turn  round  to  tell  any 
body  about  it,  tulips  have  happened! — And 
It's  May! 

More  than  seeming  extravagantly  early  this 


32  RAINY  WEEK 

year,  May  dawned  also  with  extravagant  lav- 
ishness.  Through  every  prismatic  color  of 
the  world,  sunshine  sang  to  the  senses! 

"What  shall  we  do,"  fretted  ray  Husband, 
"if  this  perfection  lasts?"  The  question  in 
deed  was  a  leading  one! 

The  scenery  for  Eainy  Week  did  not  arrive 
until  the  afternoon  of  the  eighth. 

From  his  frowning  survey  of  bright  lawns, 
gleaming  surf,  radiant  sky,  I  saw  my  Hus 
band  turn  suddenly  with  a  little  gasping  sigh 
that  might  have  meant  anything. 

"What  is  it?"  I  cried. 

"Look!"  he  said,  "it's  come." 

Silently,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  we  stood  and 
watched  the  gigantic  storm-bales  roll  into  the 
sky — packed  in  fleece,  corded  with  ropes  of 
mist,  gorgeous,  portentous,  —  To-morrow's 
Eain!  It  is  not  many  hosts  and  hostesses 
under  like  circumstances  who  turn  to  each 
other  as  we  did  with  a  single  whoop  of  joy! 

An  hour  later,  hatless  and  coatless  in  the 
lovely  warm  May  twilight,  we  stood  by  the 
larch  tree  waiting  for  our  guests.  We  like  to 
have  them  sup  in  town  at  their  own  discre 
tion  or  indiscretion,  that  first  night,  and  all 
arrive  together  reasonably  sleek  and  sleepy, 


RAINY   WEEK  33 

and  totally  unacquainted,  on  the  eight  o'clock 
train.  But  the  larch  tree  has  always  been  our 
established  point  for  meeting  the  Rainy  Week 
people.  Conceding  cordially  the  truth  of  the 
American  aphorism  that  while  charity  may 
perfectly  legitimately  begin  at  home,  hospi 
tality  should  begin  at  the  railroad  station! 
We  personally  have  proved  beyond  all  doubt 
that  for  our  immediate  interests  at  stake 
dramatic  effect  begins  at  the  entrance  to  our 
driveway. 

Yet  it  is  always  with  mingled  feelings  of 
trepidation  and  anticipation  that  we  first  sense 
the  blurry  rumble  of  motor  wheels  on  the 
highway.  If  the  station  bus  were  only  blue 
or  green!  But  palest  oak!  And  shuttered 
like  a  roll-top  desk!  Spilling  out  strange  per 
sonalities  at  you  like  other  people's  ideas 
brimming  from  pigeon-holes! 

For  some  unfathomable  reason  of  constraint 
this  night,  no  one  was  talking  when  the  bus 
arrived.  Shy,  stiff-spined,  non-communicative, 
still  questioning,  perhaps.  Who  was  who  and 
what  was  what,  these  seven  guests  who  by 
the  return  ride  a  week  hence  might  even  be 
mated,  such  things  have  happened,  or  once 
more  not  speaking  to  each  other,  this  also  has 


34  RAINY   WEEK 

happened,  loomed  now  like  so  many  dummies 
in  the  gloom. 

"Why,  Hello!"  we  cried,  jumping  to  the 
rear  step  of  the  bus  as  it  slowed  slightly  at 
the  curb,  and  thrusting  our  faces  as  genially 
as  possible  into  the  dark,  unresponsive  door 
way. 

"Hello!"  rallied  someone — I  think  it  was 
Eollins.  Whoever  it  was  he  seemed  to  be 
having  a  terrible  time  trying  to  jerk  his  suit 
case  across  other  people's  feet. 

"Oh,  is  this  where  you  live?"  questioned 
George  Keets's  careful  voice  from  the  shad 
ows.  The  faintest  possible  tinge  of  relief 
seemed  to  be  in  the  question. 

"Here?"  brightened  somebody  else. 

A  window  -  fastener  clicked,  a  shutter 
crashed,  an  aperture  opened,  and  everybody 
all  at  once,  scenting  the  sea,  crowded  to  stare 
out  where  the  gray  dusk  merging  into  gray 
rocks  merged  in  turn  with  the  gray  rocks  into  a 
low  rambling  gray  fieldstone  house  silhouetted 
with  indescribable  weirdness  at  the  moment 
against  that  delicate,  pale  gold,  French-draw 
ing-room  sort  of  sky  cluttered  so  incongruous 
ly  with  the  clump  of  dark  clouds. 

"The  road — doesn't  go  any  farther?"  puz- 


RAINY   WEEK  35 

zled  someone.  "There's  no  other  stopping 
place  you  mean — just  a  little  bit  farther  along  I 
This  is  the  end, — the  last  house, — the ?" 

High  from  a  cliff-top  somewhere  a  sea  bird 
lifted  a  single  eerie  cry. 

"Oh,  how — how  dramatic!"  gasped  some 
body. 

Eeaching  out  to  nudge  my  Husband's  hand 
I  collided  instead  with  a  dog's  cold  nose. 

Following  apparently  the  same  impulse  my 
Husband's  hand  met  the  dog's  startling  nose 
at  almost  the  same  instant. 

Except  for  a  second's  loss  of  balance  on  the 
bus-step  neither  of  us  resented  the  incident. 
But  it  was  my  Husband  who  recovered  his 
conversation  as  well  as  his  balance  first. 

"Oh,  you  Miss  Davies!"  he  called  blithely 
into  the  bus.  "What's  your  Pom's  name? 
Nose-Gay?  Skip-a-bout?  Cross-Patch?  What? 
— Lucky  for  you  we  knew  your  propensity  for 
arriving  with  pets!  The  kennel's  all  ready 
and  the  cat  sent  away!" 

In  the  nearest  shadow  of  all  it  was  almost 
as  though  one  heard  an  ego  bristle. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  the  Pomeranian 
is  mine,"  affirmed  Claude  Kennilworth's  un- 


36  RAINY   WEEK 

mistakable  voice  with  what  seemed  like  quite 
unnecessary  hauteur. 

"What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  every 
body?"  whispered  my  Husband. 

With  a  jerk  and  a  bump  the  bus  grazed  a 
big  boulder  and  landed  us  wheezily  at  our 
own  front  door. 

As  expeditiously  as  possible  my  Husband 
snatched  up  the  lantern  that  gleamed  from 
the  doorstep  and  brandishing  it  on  high, 
challenged  the  shadowy  occupants  of  the  bus 
to  disembark  and  proclaim  themselves. 

Ann  Woltor  stepped  down  first.  As  vague 
as  the  shadows  she  merged  from  her  black- 
garbed  figure  faded  un-outlined  into  the 
I  shadow  of  the  porch.  For  an  instant  only  the 
uplifted  lantern  flashed  across  her  strange 
stark  face — and  then  went  crashing  down  into 
a  shiver  of  glass  on  the  gravelly  path  at  my 
Husband's  feet.  "Ann — Stoltor!"  I  heard 
him  gasp.  My  Husband  is  not  usually  a  fum- 
bler  either  with  hand  or  tongue.  In  the 
brightening  flare  of  the  flash-light  that  some 
one  thrust  into  his  hands  his  face  showed 
frankly  rattled.  "Ann  Woltor!"  I  prompted 
him  hastily.  For  the  infinitesimal  fraction  of 
a  second  our  eyes  met.  I  hope  my  smile  was 


RAINY   WEEK  37 

as  quick.  "What  is  the  matter  with  every 
body?"  I  said. 

"With  extravagant  exuberance  my  Husband 
jumped  to  help  the  rest  of  our  guests  alight. 
"Hi,  there,  Everybody!"  he  greeted  each  new 
face  in  turn  as  it  emerged  somewhat  hump- 
shouldered  and  vague  through  the  door  of  the 
bus  into  the  flare  of  his  lantern  light. 

Poor  Eollins,  of  course,  tumbled  out. 

Fastidiously,  George  Keets  illustrated  how 
a  perfect  exit  from  a  bus  should  be  made, — 
suitcase,  hat-box,  English  ulster,  everything 
a  model  of  its  kind.  Even  the  constraint  of 
his  face,  absolutely  perfect. 

With  the  Pomeranian  clutched  rather  dras 
tically  under  one  arm,  Claude  Kennilworth 
followed  Keets.  All  the  time,  of  course,  you 
knew  that  it  was  the  Pomeranian  who  was 
growling,  but  from  the  frowning  irritability  of 
young  Kennilworth 's  eyes  one  might  almost 
have  concluded  that  the  boy  was  a  ventrilo 
quist  and  the  Pom  a  puppet  instead  of  a 
puppy.  "Her  name  is  'Pet,'  "  he  announced 
somewhat  succinctly  to  my  Husband.  "And 
she  sleeps  in  no — kennel!" 

A  trifle  paler  than  I  had  expected,  but  inex 
pressively  young,  lovely,  palpitant,  and  alto- 


38  RAINY   WEEK 

gether  adorable,  the  May  Girl  sprang  into  my 
vision — and  my  arms.  Her  heart  was  beating 
like  a  wild  bird's. 

With  the  incredibility  of  their  miracle  still 
stamped  almost  embarrassingly  on  their  faces, 
our  Bride-and-Groom-of-a-Week  completed  the 
list.  It  wasn't  just  the  material  physical  fact 
that  Love  was  consummated,  that  gave  them 
that  look.  But  the  spiritual  amazement  that 
Love  was  consummatable !  No  other  "look" 
in  life  ever  compasses  it, — ever  duplicates  it! 

It  made  my  Husband  quite  perceptibly 
quicken  the  tempo  of  his  jocosity. 

"One  —  two  —  three  —  four  —  five  — •  six 
— seven,"  he  enumerated.  "All  good  guests 
come  straight  from  Heaven!  One  —  two  — 
three — four — five — six — Seven — "  he  repeated 
as  though  to  be  perfectly  sure,  "seven? — 
Why — Why,  what  the — ?"  he  interrupted  him 
self  suddenly. 

With  frank  bewilderment  I  saw  him  jump 
back  to  the  rear  step  of  the  bus  and  flash  his 
light  into  the  farthest  corner  where  the  hud 
dled  form  of  an  eighth  person  loomed  weirdly 
from  the  shadows. 

It  was  a  man — a  young  man.  And  at  first 
glimpse  he  was  quite  dead.  But  on  second 


RAINY   WEEK  39 

glimpse,  merely  drunk.  Hopelessly,  —  help 
lessly, — sodden  drunk,  with  his  hat  gone,  his 
collar  torn  away,  his  haggard  face  sagging 
like  some  broken  thing  against  his  breast. 

With  a  tension  suddenly  relaxed,  a  faint 
sigh  seemed  to  slip  from  the  group  outside. 
In  the  crowding  faces  that  surrounded  us  in 
stantly,  it  must  have  been  something  in  young 
Kennilworth's  expression,  or  in  the  Pomera 
nian's,  that  made  my  Husband  speak  just  ex 
actly  as  he  did.  With  his  arms  held  under 
the  disheveled,  uncouth  figure,  he  turned  quite 
abruptly  and  scanned  the  faces  of  his  guests, 
"And  whose  little  pet — may  this  be?'*  he  asked 
trenchantly. 

From  the  shadow  of  the  Porte-cochere  some 
body  laughed.  It  was  rather  a  vacuous  little 
laugh.  Sheer  nerves!  Rollins,  I  think. 

Framed  in  the  half-shuttered  window  of 
the  bus  the  May  Girl's  face  pinked  suddenly 
like  a  flare  of  apple  blossoms. 

"He — came  with — me,"  said  the  May  Girl. 

No  matter  how  informally  one  chooses  to 
run  his  household  there  is  almost  always  some 
one  rule  I've  noticed  on  which  the  smoothness 
of  that  informality  depends. 

In  our  household  that  rule  seems  to  be  that 


40  RAINY   WEEK 

no  explanations  shall  ever  be  asked  either  in 
the  darkness  or  by  artificial  light.  ...  It 
being  the  supposition  I  infer  that  most  things 
explain  themselves  by  daylight.  .  .  .  Per 
fectly  cordially  I  concede  that  they  usually 
do.  .  .  .  But  some  nights  are  a  great  deal 
longer  to  wait  through  than  others. 

It  wasn't,  on  this  particular  night,  that 
anyone  refused  to  explain.  But  that  nobody 
even  had  time  to  think  of  explaining.  The 
young  Stranger  was  in  a  bad  way.  Not  delir 
ium  tremens  nor  anything  like  that,  but  a 
fearful  alcoholic  disorganization  of  some 
sort.  The  men  were  running  up  and  down 
stairs  half  the  night.  Their  voices  rang 
through  the  halls  in  short,  sharp  orders  to 
each  other.  No  one  else  spoke  above  a  whis 
per.  With  silly  comforts  like  talcum  powder, 
and  hot  water  bottles,  and  sweet  chocolate, 
and  new  novels,  I  put  the  women  to  bed.  Their 
comments  if  not  explanatory  were  at  least 
reasonably  characteristic. 

From  a  swirl  of  pink  chiffon  and  my  best 
blankets,  with  her  ear  cocked  quite  frankly 
toward  a  step  on  the  stairs,  her  eyes  like 
stars,  her  mouth  all  a-kiss,  the  Bride  re 
ported  her  own  emotions  in  the  matter. 


RAINY   WEEK  41 

"No, — no  one,  of  course  had  ever  believed 
for  a  moment,"  the  Bride  assured  me,  "that 
the  Drunken  Man  was  one  of  the  guests.  .  .  . 
And  yet,  when  he  didn't  get  off  at  any  of 
the  stops,  and  this  house  was  so  definitely 
announced  as  the  'end  of  the  road* — why  it 
did,  of  course,  make  one  feel  just  a  little  bit 
nervous,"  flushed  the  Bride,  perfectly  irrele 
vantly,  as  the  creak  on  the  stairs  drew  nearer. 

Ann  Woltor  registered  only  a  very  typical 
indifference. 

"A  great  many  different  kinds  of  things," 
she  affirmed,  "were  bound  to  happen  in  any 
time  as  long  as  a  day.  .  .  .  One  simply  had 
to  get  used  to  them,  that  was  all."  She  was 
unpacking  her  sombre  black  traveling  bag  as 
she  spoke,  and  the  first  thing  she  took  out 
from  it  was  a  man's  gay,  green-plaided  golf 
cap.  It  looked  strange  with  the  rest  of  her 
things.  All  the  rest  of  her  things  were  black. 

I  thought  I  would  never  succeed  in  putting 
the  May  Girl  to  bed.  With  a  sweet  sort  of 
stubbornness  she  resisted  every  effort.  The 
first  time  I  went  back  she  was  kneeling  at  her 
bedside  to  say  her  "forgotten  prayers."  The 
second  time  I  went  back  she  had  just  jumped 
«p  to  "write  a  letter  to  her  Grandfather." 


42  RAINY   WEEK 

" Something  about  the  sea/'  she  affirmed,  "had 
made  her  think  of  her  grandfather."  It  was 
a  long  time,"  she -acknowledged,  since  she  "had 
thought  of  her  grandfather."  "He  was  very 
old,"  she  argued,  "-and  she  didn't  want  to 
delay  any  longer  about  writing."  Slim  and 
frank  as  a  boy  in  her  half-adjusted  blanket- 
wrapper  dishabille  she  smiled  up  at  me  through 
the  amazing  mop  of  gold  hair  with  the  gray 
streak  floating  like  a  cloud  across  the  sun 
shine  of  her  face.  She  was  very  nervous.  She 
must  have  been  nervous.  It  darkened  her 
eyes  to  two  blue  sapphires.  It  quickened  her 
breath  like  the  breath  of  a  young  fawn  run 
ning.  "And  would  I  please  tell  her  -how  to 
spell  *  oceanic'?"  she  implored  me.  As  though 
answering  intuitively  the  unspoken  question 
on  my  lips,  she  shrugged  blame  from  her  as 
some  exotic  songbird  might  have  shrugged  its 
fipst  snow.  "No — she  didn't  know  who  the 
young  man  was!  Truly — as  far  as  she  knew 
— fihe  had  never — never  seen  the  young  man 
before ! — o-c-e-a-n-i-c — was  it  ?  " 

The  rain  was  not  actually  delivered  until 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Just  before  dawn 
I  heard  the  storm-bales  rip.  In  sheets  of 
silver  and  points  of  steel,  with  rage  and  roar, 


RAINY   WEEK  43 

and  a  surf  like  a  picture  in  a  Sunday  supple 
ment,  the  weather  br-oke  loose! 

Thank  heaven  the  morning  was  so  dark 
that  no  one  appeared  in  the  breakfast-r-oom 
an  instant  before  the  appointed  hour  of  nine. 

George  Keets,  of  course,  appeared  exactly 
at  nine,  very  trim,  very  distingue,  in  a  mar- 
velously  tailored  gray  flannel  suit,  and  abso 
lutely  possessed  to  make  his  own  coffee. 

Claude  Kennilworth's  morning  manner  was 
very  frankly  peevish.  "His  room  had  a  tin 
roof  and  he  hardly  thought  he  should  be  .able 
to  stand  it.  ...  Bain?  Did  you  call  this 
rain?  It  was  a  Flood!  .  .  .  Were  there  any 
Movie  Palaces  near?  .  .  .  And  were  they 
open  mornings?  .  .  .  And  he'd  like  an  under 
done  chop,  please,  for  the  Pomeranian.  .  .  . 
And  it  wasn't  his  dog  anyway, — darn  the 
little  fool, — but  belonged  to  the  girl  who  had 
the  studio  next  to  his  and  she  was  pos 
sessed  with  the  idea  that  a  week  at  the  shore 
would  put  the  pup  on  its  feet  again.  .  .  . 
Women  were  so  blamed  temperamental.  .  .  . 
If  there  was  one  thing  in  the  world  that  he 
hated  it  was  temperamental  people."  And  all 
the  time  he  was  talking  he  wasn't  making 
anything  with  his  hands,  because  he  wasn't 


44  RAINY   WEEK 

thinking  anything  instead,  "And  how  in  Crea 
tion,  "  he  scolded,  "did  we  ever  happen  to  build 
a  house  out  on  the  granite  edge  of  Nowhere? 

.  .  .  How  did  we  stand  it?  How ?  ...  Hi 

•there!  .  .  .  Wait  a  moment!  .  .  .  God — what 
Form! — That  wave  with  the  tortured  top! 
.  .  .  Hush!  .  .  .  Don't  speak!  .  .  .  Please  leave 
him  alone!  Breakfast?  Not  yet!  When  a 
fellow  could  watch  a — a  thing  like  that!  .  .  . 
For  heaven's  sake,  pass  him  that  frothy- 
edged  napkin!  .  .  .  Did  anybody  mind  if  he 
tore  it?  ...  While  he*  w^atched  that  other 
froth  tear!" 

Dear,  honest,  ardent,  red-blooded  Paul 
Brenswick  came  down  so  frankly  interested 
in  the  special  device  by  which  our  house 
gutters  took  care  of  such  amazing  torrents  of 
water  that  everybody  felt  perfectly  confident 
•all  at  once  that  no  bride  of  his  would  ever 
suffer  from  leaky  roofs  or  any  other  mechani 
cal  defect.  Paul  Brenswick  liked  the  rain 
just  as  much  as  he  liked  the  gutters!  And  he 
liked  the  sea!  And  he  liked  the  house!  And 
he  liked  the  sky!  And  he  liked  everything! 
Even  when  a  clumsy  waitress  joggled  coffee 
into  his  grapefruit  he  seemed  to  like  that  just 
as  much  as  he  liked  everything  else.  Paul 


RAINY  WEEK  45 

Brenswick  was  a  real  Bridegroom.  I  am  not, 
I  believe,  a  particularly  envious  person,  and 
have  never  as  far  as  I  know  begrudged  another 
woman  her  youth  or  her  beauty  or  her  talent 
or  her  wealth.  But  if  it  ever  came  to  a  chance 
of  swapping  facial  expressions,  just  once  in 
my  life,  some  very  rainy  morning,  I  wish  I 
could  look  like  a  Bridegroom! 

But  the  expression  on  the  Bride's  face  was 
distinctly  worried.  Joy  worried !  Any  woman 
who  had  ever  been  a  bride  could  have  read 
the  expression  like  an  open  book.  Victoria 
Brenswick  had  not  counted  on  rain.  Moon 
light,  of  course,  was  what  she  had  counted 
on!  Moonlight,  day  and  night  in  all  proba 
bility!  And  long,  sweet,  soft  stretches  of 
beach!  And  cavernous  rocks!  And  inces 
santly  mirthful  escapades  of  escape  from  the 
crowd!  But  to  be  shut  up  all  day  long  in  a 
houseful  of  strange  people !  .  .  .  With  a  Bride 
groom  who  after  all  was  still  more  or  less 
of  a  strange  Bridegroom?  The  panic  in  her 
face  was  almost  ghastly!  The  panic  of  the 
Perfectly-Happy!  The  panic  of  the  person 
hanging  over-ecstatically  on  the  absolute  per 
fection  of  a  singer's  prolonged  high  note, 
driven  all  at  once  to  wonder  if  this  is  the 


46  RAINY   WEEK 

moment  when  the  note  must  break!  ...  To 
be  all  alone  and  bored  on  a  rainy  day  is  no 
more  than  anyone  would  expect.  .  .  .  But  to  be 
with  one's  Lover  and  have  the  day  prove 
dull?  ...  If  God  in  the  terrible  uncertainty  of 
Him  should  force  even  one  dull  day  into  the 
miracle  of  their  life  together 1 

Ann  Woltor,  dragging  down  to  breakfast 
just  a  few  moments  late,  had  not  noticed 
especially,  it  seemed,  that  the  day  was  rainy. 
She  met  my  Husband's  eyes  as  she  met  the 
eyes  of  her  fellow-guests,  calmly,  indifferently, 
and  with  perfect  sophistication.  If  his  pres 
ence  or  personality  was  in  any  way  a  shock 
to  her  she  certainly  gave  no  sign  of  it. 

The  May  Girl  didn't  appear  till  very  late, 
so  late  indeed  that  everybody  started  to  tease 
her  for  being  such  a  Sleepy  Head.  Her  face 
was  very  flushed.  Her  hair  in  a  riot  of  gold — 
and  gray.  Her  appetite  like  the  appetite  of 
a  young  cannibal.  Across  the  rim  of  her 
cocoa  cup  she  hurled  a  lovely  defiance  at  her 
traducers.  "Sleepy  Head!"  she  exulted. 
"Not  much!  Hadn't  she  been  up  since  six? 
,And  out  on  the  beach?  And  all  over  the 
rocks?  .  .  .  Way,  way  out  to  the  farthest 


RAINY   WEEK  47 

point?  .  .  .  There  was  such  a  heavenly  suit 
of  yellow  oil-skins  in  her  closet!  .  .  .  She 
hoped  it  wasn't  cheeky  of  her  but  she  just 
couldn't  resist  'em!  .  .  .  And  the  fishes?  .  .  . 
The  poor,  poor  little  bruised  fishes  dashed 
up,  by  that  terrible  surf  on  the  rocks!  .... 
She  thought  she  never,  never  would  get  them 
ail  put  back!  .  .  .  They  kept  coming  and  com 
ing  so!  Every  new  wave!  Flopping! — Flop 
ping " 

Eollins's  breakfast  had  been  sent  to  his 
room.  You  yourself  wouldn't  have  wanted  to 
spring  Rollins  on  any  one  quite  so  early  in  the 
day.  And  with  my  best  breakfast  tray,  my 
second  best  china,  and  sherry  in  the  grape 
fruit,  there  was  no  reason  certainly  why 
Kollins  in  any  way  should  feel  discriminated 
against.  Surely,  as  far  as  Rollins  knew,  every 
guest  was  breakfasting  in  bed. 

Even  without  Rollins  there  was  quite  enough 
uncertainty  in  the  air. 

Everybody  was  talking — talking  about  the 
morning,  I  mean — not  about  yesterday  morn 
ing  ;  most  certainly  not  about  yesterday  night  f 
Babble,  chatter,  drawl,  laughter,  the  voices 
rose  and  fell.  Breakfast  indeed  was  just 


48  RAINY   WEEK 

about  over  when  a  faint  stir  on  the  threshold 
made  everybody  look  up. 

It  was  the  Drunken  Stranger  of  the  night 
before. 

Heaven  knows  he  was  sober  enough  now. 
But  very  shaky!  Yet  collarless  as  he  was  and 
still  unshaven  —  our  men  had  evidently  not 
expected  quite  so  early  a  resuscitation — he 
loomed  up  now  in  the  doorway  with  a  certain 
tragic  poise  and  dignity  that  was  by  no  means 
unattractive. 

"Why,  hello!"  said  everybody. 

"Hello!"  said  the  Stranger.  With  a  pal 
pable  flex  of  muscle  he  leaned  back  against 
the  wainscoting  of  the  door  and  narrowed  his 
haggard  eyes  to  the  cheerful  scene  before 
him.  "I  don't  know — where  I  am,"  he  said, 
"or  how  I  got  here.  ...  Or  who  you  are." 
"I  can't  seem  to  remember  anything."  The 
faintly  sheepish  smile  that  quickened  suddenly 
in  his  eyes,  if  not  distinctly  humorous,  was  at 
least  plucky.  "I  think  I  must  have  had  a 
drink,"  he  said. 

"I  wouldn't  wonder!"  grinned  Paul  Brens- 
wick. 

"You  are  perfectly  right,"  conceded  George 
Keets. 


RAINY   WEEK  49 

"Have  another!"  suggested  my  Husband. 
"A  straight  and  narrow  this  time!  You  look 
wobbly.  There's  nothing  like  coffee." 

And  still  the  Stranger  stood  undecided  in 
the  doorway.  "I'm  not  very  fit,"  he  ac 
knowledged.  "Not  with  ladies.  .  .  .  But  I  had 
to  know  where  I  was."  Blinking  with  per 
plexity  he  stared  and  stared  at  the  faces 
before  him.  "I'm  three  thousand  miles  from 
home,"  he  worried.  "I  don't  know  a  soul 
this  side  of  the  Sierras.  .  .  .  I — I  don't  know 
how  it  happened " 

"Oh,  Shucks!"  shrugged  young  Kennil- 
worth.  "Easiest  thing  in  $he  world  to  happen 
to  a  stranger  in  a  new  town!  *  Welcome  to 
our  City' — 'Welcome  to  our  City*  from  night 
till  morning  and  morning  till  night  again! 
Any  crowd  once  it  gets  started " 

"Crowd!"  brightened  the  Stranger.  "I — 
I  was  in  some  sort  of  a — a  crowd  I"  he  rum 
maged  hopefully  through  his  poor  bruised 
brain. 

From  her  concentrated  interest  in  a  fried 
chicken-bone,  the  May  Girl  glanced  up  with 
her  first  evidence  of  divided  attention. 

"Yes!     You  were!"  she  confided  genially. 


50  RAINY   WEEK 

"It  was  at  the  railroad  junction.  And  when 
the  officer  arrived,  he  said,  *I  hate  like  the 
dickens  to  run  this  gentleman  in,  but  if  there 's 
nobody  to  look  after  him — V  So  I  said  you 
belonged  to  me!  I  saw  the  crape  on  your 
sleeve  I9'  said  the  May  Girl. 

"Crape — on — my — sleeve ?"  stammered  the 
Stranger.  With  a  dreadful  gesture  of  in 
credulity  he  lifted  his  black-banded  arm  into 
vision.  It  was  like  watching  a  live  heart  torn 
apart  to  see  his  memory  waken.  '  *  My — God ! ' ' 
he  gasped.  "My  God!"  Still  wavering  but 
with  a  really  heroic  effort  to  square  his 
stricken  shoulders,  he  swung  back  toward  the 
company.  His  face  was  livid, — his  voice, 
barely  articulate.  Over  face  and  voice  lay 
still  that  dreadful  blight  of  astonishment. 
But  when  he  spoke  his  statement  was  starkly 
simple.  "I — I  buried  my  wife — and  unborn 
child — yesterday,"  he  said.  "In  a  strange 
land — among  strangers  I — I " 

More  quickly  than  I  could  possibly  have 
imagined  it,  George  Keets  was  on  his  feet 
beckoning  the  Stranger  to  the  place  which  he 
himself  had  just  vacated.  And  with  his  hands 
on  the  Stranger's  shoulders  he  bent  down 


RAINY   WEEK  51 

suddenly  over  him  with  a  curiously  twisted 
little  smile. 

"Welcome  to  our  —  Pity!"  said  George 
Keets. 

Between  Paul  Brenswick  and  his  Bride  there 
flashed  a  sharp  glance  of  terror.  It  was  as 
though  the  bride's  heart  had  gasped  out. 
"What  if  I  have  to  die  some  day? — And  this 
day  was  wasted  in  rain?" 

I  saw  young  Kennilworth  flush  and  turn 
away  from  that  glance.  I  saw  the  May  Girl 
open  her  eyes  with  a  new  baffled  sort  of 
perplexity. 

It  was  then  that  Rollins  came  puttering  in, 
grinning  like  a  Chessy  Cat,  with  his  half- 
demolished  breakfast  sliding  round  rather 
threateningly  on  his  ill-balanced  tray.  The 
strange  exultancy  of  rain  was  in  his  eye. 

"I  thought  I  heard  voices,"  he  beamed. 
"Merry  voices!"  With  mounting  excitement 
he  began  to  beat  tunes  with  his  knife  and 
fork  upon  the  delicate  porcelain  dome  of  his 
toast  dish.  "Am  I  a — King,"  he  began  to 
intone,  "that  I  should  call  my  own,  this — !" 
Struck  suddenly  by  the  somewhat  strained 
expression  of  Ann  Woltor's  face,  he  dropped 


52  RAINY   WEEK 

his  knife  and  fork  and  fixed  his  eye  upon  her 
for  the  first  time  with  an  unmistakable  in- 
tentness. 

"How  did  you  break  your  tooth? "  beamed 
Eollins. 


CHAPTER   n 

FOB  a  single  horrid  moment  everybody's 
heart  seemed  to  lurch  off  into  space  to 
land  only  too  audibly  in  a  gaspy  thud 
of  dismay. 

Then  Ann  Woltor  with  unprecedented  pres 
ence  of  mind  jumped  up  from  the  table  and 
ran  to  the  mirror  over  the  fireplace.  Only 
the  twittering  throat-muscle  reflected  in  that 
mirror  belied  for  an  instant  the  sincerity  of 
either  her  haste  or  her  astonishment. 

"Broken  tooth!"  she  protested  incredu 
lously.  "Why!  Have  I  got  a — broken  tooth?" 

People  acknowledge  their  mental  panics  so 
divergently.  My  Husband  acknowledged  his 
by  ramming  his  elbow  into  his  coffee  cup. 
Claude  Kennilworth  lit  one  cigarette  after 
another.  The  May  Girl  started  to  butter  a 
picture  post  card  that  someone  had  just 
passed  her.  Quite  starkly  before  my  very 
eyes  I  saw  the  Sober  Stranger,  erstwhile 
drunken,  reach  out  and  slip  a  silver  salt- 
shaker  into  his  pocket.  Meeting  his  glance 

63 


54  RAINY   WEEK 

my  own  nerves  exploded  in  a  single  hoot  of 
mirth. 

Into  the  unhappy  havoc  of  the  Stranger's 
face  a  rather  sick  but  very  determinate  little 
smile  shot  suddenly. 

"Well,  I  certainly  am  rattled?"  he  acknowl 
edged. 

His  embarrassment  was  absolutely  perfect. 
Not  a  whit  too  much,  not  a  whit  too  little,  at 
a  moment  when  the  slightest  under-emphasis 
or  over-emphasis  of  his  awkwardness  would 
have  stamped  him  ineradicably  as  either  boor 
— or  bounder.  More  indeed  by  his  chair's 
volition  than  by  his  own  he  seemed  to  jerk 
aside  then  and  there  from  any  further  re 
sponsibility  for  the  incident.  Turbid  as  the 
storm  at  the  window  his  eyes  racked  back  to 
the  eyes  of  his  companions. 

"Surely,"  he  besought  us,  "there  must  be 
some  place — some  hotel — somewhere  in  this 
town — where  I  can  crawl  into  for  a  day 
or  two  till  I  can  yank  myself  together  again? 
.  .  .  Taking  me  in  this  way  from  the  streets — 
or  worse — the  way  you-people  have — "  Along 
the  stricken  pallor  of  his  forehead  a  glisten 
of  sweat  showed  faintly.  From  my  eyes  to 
my  Husband's  eyes,  and  back  to  mine  again 


RAINY   WEEK  55 

he  turned  with  a  sharply  impulsive  gesture 
of  appeal.  "How  do  you-people  know  but 
what  I  am  a  burglar?"  he  demanded. 

"Even  so,"  I  suggested  blithely,  "can't  you 
see  that  we'd  infinitely  rather  have  you  visit 
ing  here  as  our  friend  than  boarding  at  the 
hotel  as  our  foe!" 

The  mirthless  smile  on  the  Stranger's  face 
twitched  ever  so  faintly  at  one  corner. 

"You  really  believe  then — "  he  quickened, 
"that  there  is  *  honor  among  thieves'?" 

"All  proverbs,"  intercepted  my  Husband  a 
bit  abruptly,  "are  best  proved  by  their  anti 
thesis.  We  do  at  least  know — that  there  is 
at  times — a  considerable  streak  of  dishonor 
among  saints!" 

"Eh?— What's  that— I  didn't  quite  catch 
it,"  beamed  the  Bridegroom. 

But  my  Husband's  entire  attention  seemed 
focused  rather  suddenly  on  the  Stranger. 

"So  you'd  much  better  stay  right  on  here 
where  you  are!"  he  adjured  him  with  some 
accent  of  authority.  "Where  all  explanations 
are  already  given  and  taken!  .  .  .  Ourselves 
quite  opportunely  short  one  guest  and  long 
one  guest-room,  and —  No!  I  won't  listen  for 
a  moment  to  its  being  called  an  'imposition'!" 


56  RAINY   WEEK 

protested  my  Husband.  "Not  for  a  moment! 
Only,  of  course,  I  must  admit,"  he  confided 
genially,  above  the  flare  of  a  fresh  cigarette, 
"that  it  would  be  a  slight  convenience  to  know 
your  name." 

"My  name?"  flushed  the  Stranger.  "Why, 
of  course!  It's  Allan  John." 

"You  mean  'John  Allan,'  "  corrected  the 
May  Girl  very  softly. 

"No,"  insisted  the  Stranger.  "It's  Allan 
John."  Quite  logically  he  began  to  rummage 
through  his  pockets  for  the  proof.  "It's 
written  on  my  bill-folder,"  he  frowned.  "It's 
in  my  check-book.  ...  It's  written  on  no-end 
of  envelopes."  With  his  face  the  color  of 
half-dead  sedge  grass  he  sank  back  suddenly 
into  his  chair  and  turned  his  empty  hands 
limply  outward  as  though  his  wrist-bones  had 
been  wrung.  *  *  Gone ! "  he  gasped.  ' '  Stripped ! 
— Everything!" 

"There  you  have  it!"  I  babbled  hysterically. 
"Now,  how  do  you  know  but  what  we  are 
burglars?  .  .  .  This  whole  house  a  Den  of 
Thieves?  .  .  .  The  impeccable  Mr.  George 
Keets  there  at  your  right, — no  more,  no  less, 
than  exactly  what  he  looks, — an  almost  per 
fect  replica  of  a  stage  'Raffles'?" 


RAINY   WEEK  57 

"Eh?    What's  that?"  bridled  George  Keets. 

"Dragging  you  here  to  this  house  the  way 
we  did,"  I  floundered  desperately.  "Quite 
helpless  as  you  were.  So — so " 

"  *  Spifflicated, '  :  prompted  the  May  Girl. 
The  word  on  her  lips  was  like  the  flutter  of  a 
rose  petal. 

With  a  little  gasp  of  astonishment  young 
Kennil worth  rose  from  his  place,  and  drag 
ging  his  chair  in  one  hand,  his  plate  of  fruit 
in  the  other,  moved  round  to  the  May  Girl's 
elbow  to  finish  his  breakfast.  Like  a  palm 
trying  to  patronize  a  pine  tree,  his  crisp 
exotic  young  ego  swept  down  across  her  young 
serenity. 

"Really,  I  don't  quite  make  you  out,"  he 
said.  "I  think  I  shall  have  to  study  you!" 

"Study  — me!"  reflected  the  May  Girl. 
"Make  a  lesson  about  me,  you  mean!  On  a 
holiday?"  The  vaguely  dawning  dimple  in 
her  smooth  cheek  faded  suddenly  out  again. 

The  Stranger — Allan  John — it  seemed,  was 
rising  from  the  table. 

"If  you'll  excuse  me,  I  think  I'll  go  to  my 
room,"  he  explained.  "I'm  still  pretty  shaky. 
I»m » 

But  half  way  to  the  stairs,  as  though  drawn 


58  RAINY   WEEK 

by  some  irresistible  impulse,  he  turned,  and 
fumbling  his  way  back  across  the  dining-room 
opened  the  big  glass  doors  direct  into  the 
storm.  Tripping  ever  so  slightly  on  the 
threshold  he  lurched  forward  in  a  single 
wavering  step.  In  an  instant  the  May  Girl  was 
at  his  side,  her  steadying  hand  held  out  to 
his!  Eecovering  his  balance  almost  instantly 
he  did  not  however  release  her  hand,  but  still 
holding  tight  to  it,  indescribably  puzzled,  in 
describably  helpless,  stood  shoulder  to  shoul 
der  with  her,  staring  out  into  the  tempestuous 
scene.  Lashed  by  the  wind  the  May  Girl's 
mop  of  hair  blew  gold,  blew  gray,  across 
his  rain-drenched  eyes.  Blurred  in  a  gusty 
flutter  of  white  skirts  his  whole  tragic,  sag 
ging  figure  loomed  suddenly  like  some  weird, 
symbolic  shadow  against  the  girl's  bright 
beauty. 

Frankly  the  picture  startled  me!  "S-s-h!" 
warned  my  Husband.  "It  won't  hurt  her 
any!  He  doesn't  even  know  whether  she's 
young  or  old." 

"Or  a  boy — or  a  girl,"  interposed  George 
Keets,  a  bit  drily. 

"Or  an  imp  or  a  saint,"  grinned  young 
Kennilworth.  ' '  Or " 


RAINY  WEEK  59 

"Or  anything  at  all,"  persisted  my  Hus 
band,  "except  that  she  says  'Kindness' — and 
nothing  else,  you  notice,  except  just  'Kind 
ness.'  No  suggestions,  you  observe1?  No  ad 
vice?  And  at  an  acid  moment  in  his  life  of 
such  unprecedented  shock  and  general  nervous 
disorganization  when  his  only  conceivable 
chance  of  *  come-back*  perhaps,  hangs  on  the 
alkaline  wag  of  a  strange  dog's  tail  or  the 
tune  of  a  street  piano  proving  balm  not  blister. 
By  to-morrow — I  think — you  won't  see  him 
holding  hands  with  the  May  Girl — nor  with 
any  other  woman.  Personally,"  confided  my 
Husband  a  bit  abruptly,  "I  rather  like  the 
fellow!  Even  in  the  worst  of  his  plight  last 
night  there  was  a  certain  fundamental  sort 
of  poise  and  dignity  about  him  as  of  one  who 
would  say,  'Bad  as  this  is,  you  chaps  must 
see  that  I'd  stand  ready  with  my  life  to  do 
the  same  for  you'!" 

"  'To — do — the  same — for  you?'  "  gasped 
the  Bride.  Very  quietly,  like  an  offended 
young  princess,  she  rose  from  the  table  and 
stood  for  that  single  protesting  moment  with 
her  hand  on  her  Bridegroom's  shoulder.  Her 
eager,  academic  young  face  was  frankly 
aghast, — her  voice  distinctly  strained.  "I'm 


60  RAINY   WEEK 

sorry, "  she  said,  "but  I  quite  fail  to  see  how 
the  word  ' dignity*  could  possibly  be  applied 
to  any  man  who  had  so  debased  himself  as  to 
go  and  get  drunk  because  his  wife  and  child 
were  dead!" 

"You  talk,"  said  my  Husband,  "as  though 
you  thought  *  getting  drunk*  was  some  sort 
of  jocular  sport.  It  isn't!  That  is,  not  in 
evitably,  you  know!" 

"No — I  didn't — know,"  murmured  the  Bride 
coldly. 

"Deplorable  as  the  result  proved  to  be,"  in 
terposed  George  Keets's  smooth,  carefully 
modulated  voice,  "it's  hardly  probable  I  sup 
pose  that  the  poor  devil  started  out  with  the 
one  deliberate  purpose  of — of  'debasing'  him 
self,  as  Mrs.  Brenswick  calls  it." 

"N-o?"  questioned  the  Bride. 

"It  isn't  exactly,  you  mean,  as  though  he'd 
leapt  from  the  church  shouting,  *Yo — ho — , 
and  a  bottle  of  rum, '  : '  observed  young  Ken- 
nilworth  with  one  faintly-twisted  eyebrow. 

"S-s-h!"  admonished  everybody. 

"Maybe  he  simply  hadn't  eaten  for  days," 
suggested  my  Husband. 

"Or  slept  for  nights  and  nights,"  frowned 
George  Keets. 


RAINY   WEEK  61 

"And  just  absolutely  was  obliged  to  have  a 
bracer,"  said  my  Husband,  "to  put  the  bones 
back  into  his  knees  again  so  that  he  could 
climb  up  the  steps  of  his  train  and  fumble 
some  sort  of  way  to  his  seat  without  seeming 
too  conspicuous.  Whatever  religion  may  do, 
you  know,  to  starch  a  man's  soul  or  stiffen 
his  upper  lip,  he's  got  to  have  bones  in  his 
knees  if  he's  going  to  climb  up  into  railroad 
trains.  .  .  .  And  our  poor  young  friend  here, 
it  would  seem,  merely  mis " 

* '  Mis  —  calculated, ' '  mused  Kennilworth, 
"how  many  knees  he  had." 

"Paul  wouldn't  do  it!"  flared  the  Bride. 

"Do  what?"  demanded  young  Kennilworth. 

"Hush!"  protested  everybody. 

"Make  a  beast  of  himself — if  I  died — if  I 
died!"  persisted  the  Bride. 

"Pray  excuse  me  for  contradicting  either 
your  noun  or  your  preposition,"  apologized 
my  Husband.  "But  even  at  its  worst  I'm 
quite  willing  to  wager  that  the  only  thing  in 
the  world  poor  Allan  John  started  out  to 
'make*  was  an  oblivion — for — himself." 

"An  oblivion?"  scoffed  the  Bride. 

"Yes — even  for  one  night!"  persisted  my 
Husband.  "Even  for  one  short  little  night  I 


62  RAINY   WEEK 

.  .  .  Before  the  horror  of  365  nights  to  the 
year  and  God  knows  how  many  years  to  the 
life — rang  on  again!  Some  men  really  like 
their  wives  you  know,  —  some  men  —  so  no 
matter  how  thin-skinned  and  weak  this  desire 
for  oblivion  seems  to  you — "  quickened  my 
Husband,  "it  is  at  least  a " 

"Paul  wouldn't!"  frowned  the  Bride. 

In  the  sudden  accentuation  of  strain  every 
body  turned  as  quickly  as  possible  to  poor 
Paul  to  decide  as  cheerfully  as  seemed  com 
patible  with  good  taste  just  what  that  gor 
geously  wholesome  looking  specimen  of  young 
manhood  would  or  would  not  do  probably 
under  suggested  circumstances.  Nobody  cer 
tainly  wanted  to  consider  the  matter  seriously, 
yet  nobody  with  the  Bride's  scared  eyes  still 
scorching  through  his  senses  would  have  felt 
quite  justified  I  think  in  mere  shrugging  the 
issue  aside. 

"No,  I  don't  think  Paul— would  I"  rallied 
my  Husband  with  commendable  quickness. 
"Not  with  those  eyes!  Not  with  that  particu 
lar  shade  of  crisp,  controlled  hair!  .  .  .  Com 
plexions  like  his  aren't  made  in  one  genera 
tion  of  righteous  nerves  and  digestions!  .  .  . 
Oh  no — !  Even  in  the  last  ditch  the  worst 


RAINY   WEEK  63 

thing  Paul  would  do  would  be  to  stalk  round 
putting  brand  new  gutters  on  a  brand  new 
house!" 

"Bridge-building  is  my  job — not  gutters," 
grinned  Paul  unhappily. 

"Stalk  round  building  brand  new  bridges," 
corrected  my  Husband. 

"Intoxicated  with  bridges!"  triumphed 
young  Kennilworth.  "Doped  with  specifica 
tions  ! ' ' 

"But  perhaps  Allan  John — doesn't  know 
how  to  build  bridges,"  murmured  my  Hus 
band.  "And  perhaps  in  Allan  John's  family 
an  occasional  Maiden  Aunt  or  Uncle  has 
strayed  just  a " 

"With  the  faintest  possible  gesture  of  impa 
tience,  but  still  smiling,  the  Bridegroom  rose 
from  the  table  and  lifted  his  Bride 's  hand  very 
gently  from  his  shoulder. 

"Who  started  this  conversation,  anyway?" 
he  quizzed. 

"I  did!"  laughed  everybody. 

"Well,  I  end  it!"  said  the  Bridegroom. 

"Oh,  thunder!"  protested  young  Kennil 
worth.  In  the  hollow  of  his  hand  something 
that  once  had  been  the  spongy  shapeless  center 
of  a  breakfast  roll  crushed  back  into  sponge 


64  RAINY   WEEK 

again.  But  in  the  instant  of  its  crushing, 
crude  as  the  modeling  was,  half  jest,  half 
child's  play,  I  sensed  the  unmistakable  parody 
of  a  woman's  finger-prints  bruising  into  the 
soft  crest  of  a  man's  shoulder.  Even  in  the 
absurdity  of  its  substance  the  sincerity  of  the 
thing  was  appalling.  Catching  my  eye  alone, 
young  Kennilworth  gave  an  amused  but  dis 
tinctly  worldly-wise  little  laugh. 

"Women  do  care  so  much,  don't  they?"  he 
shrugged. 

A  trifling  commotion  in  the  front  hall  stayed 
the  retort  on  my  lips. 

The  commotion  was  Ann  Woltor.  Coated 
and  hatted  and  already  half -gloved  she  loomed 
blackly  from  the  shadows,  trying  very  hard 
to  attract  my  attention. 

In  my  twinge  of  anxiety  about  the  May  Girl 
I  had  quite  forgotten  Ann  Woltor.  And  in 
the  somewhat  heated  discussion  of  Allan 
John's  responsibilities  and  irresponsibilities, 
the  May  Girl  also,  it  would  seem,  had  passed 
entirely  from  my  mind. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  explained  Ann  Woltor, 
"but  with  this  unfortunate  accident  to  my 
tooth  I  shall  have  to  hurry,  of  course,  right 
back  to  town."  Even  if  you  had  never  heard 


RAINY   WEEK  65 

Ann  Woltor  speak  you  could  have  presaged 
perfectly  from  her  face  just  what  her  voice 
would  be  like,  gravely  contralto,  curiously 
sonorous,  absolutely  without  either  accent  or 
emphasis,  yet  carrying  in  some  strange,  inex- 
plainable  way  a  rather  goose-fleshy  sense  of 
stubbornness  and  finality.  "One  can't  exactly 
in  a  Christian  land,"  droned  Ann  Woltor, 
"go  round  looking  like  the  sole  survivor  of  a 
massacre." 

Across  the  somewhat  sapient  mutual  con 
sciousness  that  ever  since  we  had  first  laid 
eyes  on  each  other  five  months  ago — and  good 
ness  knows  how  long  before  that — she  had 
been  going  round  perfectly  serenely  'looking 
like  the  sole  survivor  of  a  massacre/  Ann 
Woltor  and  I  stared  just  a  bit  deeply  into 
each  other's  eyes.  The  expression  in  Ann's 
eyes  was  an  expression  of  peculiar  poignancy. 

"No,  of  course  not!"  I  conceded  with  some 
abruptness.  "But  surely  if  you  can  find  the 
right  dentist  and  he's  clever  at  all,  you  ought 
to  be  able  to  get  back  here  on  the  six-thirty 
train  to-night  I" 

"The  six- thirty  train?  Perhaps,"  mur 
mured  Ann  Woltor.  Once  again  her  eyes  hung 
upon  mine.  And  I  knew  and  Ann  Woltor 


66  RAINY   WEEK 

knew  and  Ann  Woltor  knew  that  I  knew, — 
that  she  hadn't  the  slightest  intention  in  the 
world  of  returning  to  us  on  any  train  whatso 
ever.  But  for  some  reason  known  only  to 
herself  and  perhaps  one  other,  was  only  too 
glad  to  escape  from  our  party — anatomically 
impossible  as  that  escape  sounds — through  the 
loop-hole  of  a  broken  tooth.  Already  both 
black  gloves  were  fastened,  and  her  black  trav 
eling-bag  swayed  lightly  in  one  slim,  deter 
minate  hand.  "Your  maid  has  ordered  the 
station  bus  for  me,"  she  confided;  "and  tells 
me  that  by  changing  cars  at  the  Junction  and 
again  at  Lees —  Truly  I'm  sorry  to  make  any 
trouble,"  she  interrupted  herself.  "If  there 
had  been  any  possible  way  of  just  slipping 
out  without  anybody  noticing !" 

"Without  anybody  noticing?"  I  cried. 
"Why,  Ann,  you  dear  silly!" 

At  this,  my  first  use  of  her  Christian  name, 
she  flashed  back  at  me  a  single  veiled  glance 
of  astonishment,  and  started  for  the  door. 
But  before  I  could  reach  her  side  my  Husband 
stepped  forward  and  blocked  her  exit  by  the 
seemingly  casual  accident  of  plunging  both 
arms  rather  wildly  into  the  sleeves  of  his 
great  city-going  raincoat. 


RAINY   WEEK  67 

"Why  the  thing  is  absurd!"  he  protested. 
"You  can't  possibly  make  train  connections! 
And  there  isn't  even  a  covered  shed  at  the 
Junction!  If  this  matter  is  so  important  I'll 
run  you  up  to  town  myself  in  the  little  closed 
car!" 

Across  Ann  Woltor's  imperturbable  face  an 
expression  that  would  have  meant  an  in-grow 
ing  scream  on  any  other  person's  countenance 
flared  up  in  a  single  twitching  lip-muscle  and 
was  gone  again.  Behind  the  smiling  banter 
in  my  Husband's  eyes  she  also  perhaps  had 
noted  a  determination  quite  as  stubborn  as 
her  own. 

"Why — if  you  insist,"  she  acquiesced,  "but 
it  has  always  distressed  me  more  than  I  can 
say  to  inconvenience  anybody." 

'  *  Inconvenience  —  nothing ! ' '  beamed  my 
Husband.  Ordinarily  speaking  my  Husband 
would  not  be  described  I  think  as  having  a 
beaming  expression. 

With  a  chug  like  the  chug  of  a  motor-boat 
the  little  closed  car  came  splashing  labori 
ously  round  the  driveway.  Its  glassy  face 
was  streaked  with  tears.  Depressant  as  black 
life-preservers  its  two  extra  tires  gleamed  and 
dripped  in  their  jetty  enamel-cloth  casings.  A 


68  RAINY   WEEK 

jangle  as  of  dungeon  chains  clanked  heavily 
from  each  fresh  revolution  of  its  progress. 

Everybody  came  rushing  helpfully  to  assist 
in  the  embarkation. 

My  Husband's  one  remark  to  me  flung  back 
in  a  whisper  from  the  steering  wheel,  though 
frankly  confidential,  concerned  Allan  John 
alone. 

" Don't  let  Allan  John  want  for  anything 
to-day,"  he  admonished  me.  "Keep  his  body 
and  mind  absolutely  glutted  with  bland  things 
like  cocoa  and  reading  aloud  .  .  .  And  don't 
wait  supper  for  us!" 

With  her  gay  jonquil-colored  oil-skin  coat 
swathing  her  sombre  figure,  Ann  Woltor 
slipped  into  the  seat  beside  him  and  slammed 
the  door  behind  her.  Her  face  was  certainly 
a  study. 

"Sixty  miles  to  town  if  it's  an  inch!  How 
— cosy,"  mused  young  Kennilworth. 

"Good-bye!"  shouted  everybody. 

"Good-bye!"  waved  Ann  Woltor  and  my 
Husband. 

As  for  Eollins,  he  was  almost  beside  him 
self  with  pride  and  triumph.  Shuffling  joy 
ously  from  one  foot  to  the  other  he  crowded 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  vestibule  and  with  his 


RAINY   WEEK  69 

small  fussy  face  turned  up  ecstatically  to  the 
rain,  fairly  exploded  into  speech  the  instant 
the  car  was  out  of  earshot. 

"She'll  look  better!"  gloated  Rollins. 

"Who? — the  carl"  deprecated  young  Ken- 
nilworth. 

Then,  because  everybody  laughed  out  at 
nothing,  it  gave  me  a  very  good  chance  sud 
denly  to  laugh  out  at  "nothing"  myself.  And 
most  certainly  I  had  been  needing  that  chance 
very  badly  for  at  least  the  last  fifteen  min 
utes.  Because  really  when  you  once  stopped 
to  consider  the  whole  thrilling  scheme  of  this 
"Rainy  Week"  Play,  and  how  you  and  your 
Husband  for  years  and  years  had  constituted 
yourself  a  very  eager,  earnest-minded  Audi- 
ence-of-Two  to  watch  how  the  Lord  Almighty, 
— the  one  unhampered  Dramatist  of  the  world, 
would  work  •out  the  scenes  and  colors  —  the 
exits  and  entrances  —  the  plots  and  counter 
plots  —  of  the  material  at  hand  —  it  was  just 
a  bit  astonishing  to  have  your  Husband  jump 
up  from  his  place  in  the  audience  and  leap  to 
the  stage  to  be  one  of  the  players  instead! 

It  wasn't  at  all  that  the  dereliction  worried 
your  head  or  troubled  your  heart.  But  it  left 
your  elbow  so  lonely!  Who  was  there  left 


70  RAINY   WEEK 

for  your  elbow  to  nudge?  When  the  morning 
curtain  rose  on  a  flight  of  sea  gulls  slashing 
like  white  knives  through  a  sheet  of  silver 
rain,  or  the  Night  Scene  set  itself  in  a  plushy 
black  fog  that  fairly  crinkled  your  senses; 
when  the  Leading  Lady's  eyes  narrowed  for 
the  first  time  to  the  Leading  Man's  startled 
stare,  and  the  song  you  had  introduced  so 
casually  at  the  last  moment  in  the  last  act 
proved  to  be  the  reforming  point  in  the  Vil 
lain's  nefarious  career,  and  the  one  character 
you  had  picked  for  "Comic  Relief"  turned 
out  to  be  the  Tragedienne,  who  in  the  world 
was  left  for  your  elbow  to  nudge? 

Swinging  back  to  the  breakfast-room  I  heard 
the  clock  strike  ten — only  ten? 

It  was  going  to  be  a  nice  little  Play  all 
right!  Starting  off  already  with  several  quite 
unexpected  situations!  And  it  wouldn't  be 
the  first  time  by  any  means  that  in  an  emer 
gency  I  had  been  obliged  to  "double"  as 
prompter  and  stage  hand  or  water  carrier 
and  critic.  But  how  to  double  as  elbow- 
nudger  I  couldn't  quite  figure. 

"Let's  go  for  a  tramp  on  the  beach!"  sug 
gested  the  Bridegroom.  Always  on  the  first 
rainy  morning  immediately  after  breakfast 


RAINY   WEEK  71 

some  restive  business  man  suggests  "a  tramp 
on  the  beach!"  Frankly  we  have  reached  a 
point  where  we  quite  depend  on  it  for  a  cue. 

Everybody  hailed  the  proposition  with  de 
light  except  Allan  John  and  Rollins.  A  zephyr 
would  have  blown  Allan  John  from  his  footing. 
And  Rollins  had  to  stay  in  his  room  to  cat 
alogue  shells.  .  .  .  Rollins  was  paid  to  stay  in 
his  room  and  catalogue  shells ! 

Of  the  five  adventurers  who  essayed  to 
sally  forth,  only  one  failed  to  clamor  for  oil 
skins.  You  couldn't  really  blame  the  Bride 
for  her  lack  of  clamoring.  .  .  .  The  Bride's 
trousseau  was  wonderful  as  all  trousseaux 
are  bound  perforce  to  be  that  are  made  up 
of  equal  parts  of  taste, — money, — fashion, — 
and  passion.  No  one  who  had  "saved  up" 
such  a  costume  as  the  Bride  had  for  the  first 
rainy  day  together,  could  reasonably  be  ex 
pected  to  doff  it  for  yellow  oil-skins.  Of 
some  priceless  foreign  composition,  half  cloth, 
half  mist,  indescribably  shimmering,  almost 
indecently  feminine,  with  the  frenchiest  sort 
of  a  little  hat  gaily  concocted  of  marshgrass 
and  white  rubber  pond-lilies,  it  gave  her  lovely, 
somewhat  classic  type,  all  the  sudden  auda- 


72  RAINY  WEEK 

cious  effect  somehow  of  a  water-proofed  val 
entine. 

Young  Kennilworth  sensed  the  inherent  con 
trast  at  once. 

"Beside  you,"  he  protested,  "we  look  like 
Yellow  Telegrams!  .  .  .  Your  Husband  there 
is  some  Broker 's  Stock  Quotation — sent  'col 
lect!'  .  .  .  Mr.  Keets  is  a  rather  heavily-word 
ed  summons  to  address  the  Alumnae  of  Some- 
thing-or-other  College!  ...  I  am  a  Lunch 
Invitation  to  'Miss  Dancy-Prancy  of  the  Sil 
lies!'  .  .  .  And  you,  of  course,  Miss  Davies," 
he  quickened  delightedly,  "are  a  Night  Letter, 
because  you  are  so  long — and  inconsequent- 
all  about  rabbits — and  puppies — and  kiddie 
things  like  checked  gingham  pinafores!" 

Laughing,  teasing,  arguing,  jeering  each 
other's  oil-skins,  praising  the  Bride's  splen 
dor,  they  swept,  a  young  hurricane  of  them 
selves,  out  into  the  bigger  hurricane  of  sea 
and  sky,  and  still  five  abreast,  still  jostling, 
still  teasing,  still  arguing,  passed  from  sight 
around  the  storm-swept  curve  of  the  beach, 
while  I  stayed  behind  to  read  aloud  to  Allan 
John. 

Not  that  Allan  John  listened  at  all.  But 
merely  because  every  time  I  stopped  reading 


RAINY   WEEK  73 

he  struggled  up  from  the  lovely  soggy  depths 
of  his  big  leather  chair  and  began  to  worry. 
We  read  two  garden  catalogues  and  a  chap 
ter  on  insect  pests.  We  read  a  bit  of  Walter 
Pater,  and  five  exceedingly  scurrilous  poems 
from  a  volume  of  free  verse.  It  seemed  to 
be  the  Latin  names  in  the  garden  catalogues 
that  soothed  him  most.  And  when  we  weren't 
reading,  we  drank  malted  milk.  Allan  John,  it 
seemed,  didn't  care  for  cocoa. 

But  even  if  I  hadn't  had  Allan  John  on  my 
mind  I  shouldn't  have  gone  walking  on  the 
beach.  We  have  always  indeed  made  it  a 
point  not  to  walk  on  the  beach  with  our  guests 
on  the  first  rainy,  restive  morning  of  their 
arrival.  In  a  geographical  environment  where 
every  slushy  step  of  sand,  every  crisp  rug 
of  pebbles,  every  wind-tortured  cedar  root, 
every  salt-gnawed  crag  is  as  familiar  to  us 
as  the  palms  of  our  own  hands,  it  is  almost 
beyond  human  nature  not  to  try  and  steer 
one's  visitors  to  the  preferable  places,  while 
the  whole  point  of  this  introductory  expedi 
tion  demands  that  the  visitors  shall  steer  them 
selves.  In  the  inevitable  mood  of  uneasiness 
and  dismay  that  overwhelms  most  house  party 
guests  when  first  thrust  into  each  other's  un- 


74  RAINY   WEEK 

familiar  faces,  the  initial  gravitations  that 
ensue  are  rather  more  than  usually  significant. 
To  be  perfectly  explicit,  for  instance,  people 
who  start  off  five  abreast  on  that  first  rainy 
walk  never  come  home  five  abreast! 

In  the  immediate  case  at  hand,  nobody 
came  home  at  all  until  long  after  Allan  John 
and  I  had  finished  our  luncheon,  and  in  the 
manner  of  that  coming,  George  Keets  had 
gravitated  to  leadership  with  the  Bride  and 
Bridegroom.  Very  palpably  with  the  Bride 
groom's  assistance  he  seemed  to  be  coaxing 
and  urging  the  Bride's  frankly  jaded  foot 
steps,  while  young  Kennilworth  and  the  May 
Girl  brought  up  the  rear  staggering  and 
lurching  excitedly  under  the  weight  of  a  large 
and  somewhat  mysteriously  colored  wooden 
box. 

The  Bridegroom  and  George  Keets  and 
young  Kennilworth  and  the  May  Girl  were 
as  neat  as  yellow  paint.  But  the  poor  Bride 
was  ruined.  Tattered  and  torn,  her  diapha 
nous  glory  had  turned  to  real  mist  before  the 
onslaught  of  wind  and  rain.  Her  hat  was 
swamped,  her  face  streaked  with  inharmonious 
colors.  She  was  drenched  to  the  skin.  Her 


RAINY   WEEK  75 

Bridegroom  was  distracted  with  anxiety  and 
astonishment. 

Everybody  was  very  much  excited!  Lured 
by  some  will-o'-the-wisp  that  lurks  in  waves 
and  beaches  they  had  lost  their  way  it  seems 
between  one  dune  and  another,  staggered  up 
sand-hills,  fallen  down  sand-hills,  sheltered 
themselves  at  last  during  the  worst  gust  of 
all  "in  a  sort  of  a  cave  in  a  sort  of  a  cliff" 
and  sustained  life  very  comfortably  "  thank 
you*'  on  some  cakes  of  sweet  chocolate  which 
George  Keets  had  discovered  most  oppor 
tunely  in  his  big  oil-skin  pockets! 

But  most  exciting  of  all  they  had  found  a 
wreck!  "Yes,  a  real  wreck!  A  perfectly 
lovely — beautiful — and  quite  sufficiently  grue 
some  real  wreck!"  the  May  Girl  reported. 

Not  exactly  a  whole  wreck  it  had  proved 
to  be  ...  Not  shattered  spars  and  masts 
and  crumpled  cabins  with  plush  cushions 
floating  messily  about.  But  at  least  it  was  a 
real  trunk  from  a  real  wreck!  Mrs.  Brens- 
wick  had  spied  it  first.  Just  back  of  a  long 
brown  untidy  line  of  flotsam  and  jetsam, 
the  sea-weeds,  the  dead  fish,  the  old  bales 
and  boxes,  that  every  storm  brings  to  the 
beach,  Mrs.  Brenswick  had  spied  the  trunk 


76  RAINY   WEEK 

lurching  up  half-imbedded  in  the  sand.  It 
must  have  come  in  on  the  biggest  wave  of 
all  some  time  during  the  night.  It  was 
"awfully  wet"  and  yet  "not  so  awfully  wet." 
Everybody  agreed  that  is,  that  it  wasn't 
water-logged,  that  it  hadn't,  in  short,  been 
rolling  around  in  the  sea  for  weeks  or  months 
but  bespoke  a  disaster  as  poignantly  recent 
as  last  night,  on  the  edge  of  this  very  storm 
indeed  that  they  themselves  were  now  frivol- 
ing  in.  For  fully  half  an  hour,  it  appeared 
before  even  so  much  as  touching  the  trunk, 
they  had  raced  up  and  down  the  beach  hunt 
ing  half  hopefully,  half  fearfully  for  some 
added  trace  of  wreckage,  the  hunched  body 
even  of  a  survivor.  But  even  with  this  shud 
dering  apprehension  once  allayed,  the  original 
discovery  had  not  proved  an  altogether  facile 
adventure. 

It  had  taken  indeed  at  the  last  all  their 
combined  energies  and  ingenuities  to  open 
the  trunk.  The  Bride  had  broken  two  finger 
nails.  George  Keets  had  lost  his  temper. 
Paul  Brenswick  in  a  final  flare  of  desperation 
had  kicked  in  the  whole  end  with  an  abandon 
that  seemed  to  have  been  somewhat  of  an 
astonishment  to  everybody.  Even  from  the 


RAINY  WEEK  77 

first  young  Kennilworth  had  contested  "that 
the  thing  smelt  dead."  But  this  unhappy  odor 
had  been  proved  very  fortunately  to  be  noth 
ing  more  nor  less  than  the  rain-sloughed  col 
oring  matter  of  the  Bride's  pond-lily  hat. 

"And  here  is  what  we  found  in  the  trunk!" 
thrilled  the  Bride.  In  the  palm  of  her  ex 
tended  hand  lay  a  garnet  necklace,  —  fifty 
stones  perhaps,  flushing  crimson-dark  in  a 
silver  setting  of  such  unique  beauty  and  such 
unmistakable  Florentine  workmanship  as 
stamped  the  whole  trinket  indisputably  "pre 
cious,"  if  not  the  stones  themselves. 

"And  there  were  women's  dresses  in  it," 
explained  Paul  Brenswick.  "Rather  queer- 
looking  dresses  and " 

"Oh,  it  was  the  —  the  —  funniest  trunk!" 
cried  the  May  Girl.  "All — "  Her  eyes  were 
big  with  horror. 

"Anybody  could  have  Sherlocked  at  a 
glance,"  sniffed  young  Kennilworth,  "that  it 
had  been  packed  by  a  crazy  person!" 

"No,  I  don't  agree  to  that  at  all!"  protested 
the  Bride,  whose  own  trunk-packing  urgencies 
and  emergencies  were  only  too  recent  in  her 
mind.  "Anybody's  liable  to  pack  a  trunk 
like  that  when  he's  moving!  The  last  trunk 


78  RAINY  WEEK 

of  all!  Every  left-over  thing  that  you  thought 
was  already  packed  or  that  you  had  planned 
to  tuck  into  your  suitcase  and  found  suddenly 
that  you  couldn't." 

"Why,  there  was  an  old-fashioned  copper 
chafing  dish!"  sniffed  young  Kennilworth. 
"And  the  top-drawer  of  a  sewing- table  fairly 
rattling  with  spools!" 

"And  books!"  frowned  George  Keets.  "The 
weirdest  little  old  edition  of  '  Pilgrim '&  Prog 
ress*!" 

"And  toys!"  quivered  the  May  Girl.  "A 
perfectly  gorgeous  brand  new  box  of  'Toy 
Village'!  As  huge  as —  Oh  it  was  awful!" 

"As  huge  as — that!"  kicked  young  Kennil 
worth  wryfully  against  the  box  at  his  feet. 
"I  wanted  to  bring  the  chafing  dish,"  he 
scolded,  "but  nothing  would  satisfy  this  young 
idiot  here  except  that  we  lug  the  'Toy  Vil 
lage.' " 

"One  couldn't  bring  —  everything  all  at 
once,"  deprecated  the  May  Girl.  "Perhaps 
to-morrow — if  it  isn't  too  far — and  we  ever 
could  find  it  again " 

"But  why  such  haste  about  the  'Toy  Vil 
lage'?"  I  questioned.  "Why  not  the  dresses? 
The " 


RAINY   WEEK  79 

Hopelessly,  but  with  her  eyes  like  blue  skies, 
her  cheeks  like  apple-blossoms,  the  May  Girl 
tried  to  justify  her  mental  processes.  "Prob 
ably  I  can't  explain  exactly,"  she  admitted, 
"but  books  and  dishes  and  dresses  being  just 
things  wouldn't  mind  being  drowned  —  but 
toys,  I  think,  would  be  frightened."  With  a 
frank  expression  of  shock  she  stopped  sud 
denly  and  stared  all  around  her.  "It  doesn't 
quite  make  sense  when  you  say  it  out  loudr 
does  it?"  she  reflected.  "But  when  you  just 
feel  it — inside " 

"I  brought  the  little  'Pilgrim's  Progress* 
back  with  me,"  confessed  George  Keets  with 
the  faintest  possible  smile.  "Not  exactly  per 
haps  because  I  thought  it  would  be  *  fright 
ened.'  But  two  nights'  shipwreck  on  a  New 
England  coast  in  this  sort  of  weather  didn't 
seem  absolutely  necessary." 

"And  I  brought  the  dinkiest  little  pearl- 
handled  pistol,"  brightened  Paul  Brenswick. 
"It's  a  peach!  Tucked  into  the  pocket  of  an 
old  blue  cape  it  was!  Wonder  I  ever  found 
it!" 

From  a  furious  rummaging  through  her 
pockets  the  May  Girl  suddenly  withdrew  her 
hand. 


80  RAINY   WEEK 

"Of  course,  we'll  have  to  watch  the  ship 
wreck  news,"  said  the  May  Girl.  "Or  even 
advertise,  perhaps.  So  maybe  there  won't  be 
any  real  treasnre-trove  after  all.  But  just  to 
show  that  I  thought  of  you,  Mrs.  Delville," 
she  dimpled,  "here  are  four  very  damp  spools 
of  red  sewing-silk  for  your  own  work-table 
drawer!  Maybe  they  came  all  the  way  from 
China!  And  here's  a — I  don't  know  what 
it  is,  for  Allan  John — I  think  it 's  a  whistle ! 
And  here's  a  little  not-too-soggy  real  Moroc 
co-bound  blank  book  for  Mr.  Eollins  when 
he  comes  down-stairs  again!  And " 

"And  for  Mr.  Delville?"  I  teased.  "And 
for  Ann  Woltor?" 

With  her  hand  slapped  across  her  mouth 
in  a  gesture  of  childish  dismay,  the  May  Girl 
stared  round  at  her  companions. 

"Oh  dear — Oh  dear — Oh  dear!"  she  stam 
mered.  "None  of  us  ever  thought  once  of 
poor  Mr.  Delville  and  Miss  Woltor!" 

"It's  hot  eatments  and  drinkments  that 
you'd  better  be  thinking  of  now!"  I  warned 
them  all  with  real  concern.  "And  blanket- 
wrappers  !  And  downy  quilts !  Be  off  to  your 
rooms  and  I'll  send  your  lunches  up  after 
you!  And  don't  let  one  of  you  dare  show  his 


RAINY   WEEK  81 

drenched  face  down-stairs  again  until  supper- 
time!" 

Then  Allan  John  and  I  resumed  our  read 
ing  aloud.  We  read  Longfellow  this  time,  and 
a  page  or  two  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  and  half  a 
detective  story.  And  substituted  orange  juice 
very  mercifully  for  what  had  grown  to  be 
a  somewhat  monotonous  carousal  in  malted 
milk.  Allan  John  seemed  very  much  gratified 
with  the  little  silver  whistle  from  the  ship 
wreck,  and  showed  quite  plainly  by  various 
pursings  of  his  strained  lips  that  he  was 
fairly  yearning  to  blow  it,  but  either  hadn't 
the  breath,  or  else  wasn't  sure  that  such  a 
procedure  would  be  considered  polite.  Keally 
by  six  o  'clock  I  had  grown  quite  fond  of  Allan 
John.  It  was  his  haunted  eyes,  I  think  and  the 
lovely  lean  line  of  his  cheek.  But  whether  he 
was  animal — vegetable — mineral — Spirituelle — 
or  Intellectuelle,  I,  myself,  was  not  yet  pre 
pared  to  say. 

The  supper  hour  passed  fortunately  without 
fresh  complications.  Everybody  came  down! 
Everybody's  eyes  were  like  stars!  And  every 
body's  complexion  lashed  into  sheer  gorgeous- 
ness  by  the  morning's  mad  buffet  of  wind  and 
wave!  Best  of  all,  no  one  sneezed. 


$2  RAINY   WEEK 

Our  little  Bride  was  a  dream  again  in  a 
very  straight,  very  severe  gray  velvet  frock 
that  sheathed  her  young  suppleness  like  the 
suppleness  of  a  younger  Crusader.  Her  re 
generated  beauty  was  an  object-lesson  to  all 
young  husbands'  pocket-books  for  all  time  to 
come  that  beauty  like  love  is  infinitely  more 
susceptible  to  bad  weather  than  is  either 
homeliness  or  hate,  and  as  such  must  be 
cherished  by  a  man's  brain  as  well  as  by  his 
brawn.  Paul  Brenswick,  goodness  knows, 
would  never  need  to  choose  his  Bride's  clothes 
for  her.  But  lusty  young  beauty-lover  that 
he  was  by  every  right  of  clean  heart  and  clean 
living,  it  was  up  to  him  to  see  that  his  beloved 
was  never  financially  hampered  in  her  own 
choosing!  A  non-extravagant  bride,  wrecked 
as  his  bride  had  been  by  the  morning's  tem 
pest,  might  not  so  readily  have  recovered  her 
magic. 

The  May  Girl,  as  usual,  was  like  a  spray  of 
orchard  bloom  in  some  white,  frothy,  middy 
blouse  sort  of  effect.  With  the  May  Girl's 
peculiarly  fragrant  and  insouciant  type  of 
youthfulness  one  never  noted  somehow  just 
what  she  wore,  nor  rated  one  day's  mood  of 
loveliness  against  another.  The  essential 


RAINY  WEEK  83 

miracle,  as  of  May-time  itself,  lay  merely  in 
the  fact  that  she  was  here. 

Everybody  talked,  of  course,  about  the  ship 
wreck. 

The  Bride  did  not  wear  her  necklace.  "It 
was  too  ghostly, "  she  felt.  But  she  carried  it 
in  her  hand  and  brooded  over  it  with  the 
tender,  unshakable  conviction  that  once  at 
least  it  must  have  belonged  to  "another 
Bride/' 

Rollins,  I  thought,  was  rather  unduly  en 
thusiastic  about  his  share  of  the  booty.  Yet 
no  one  who  knew  Rollins  could  ever  possibly 
have  questioned  the  absolute  sincerity  of  him. 
Note-books,  it  appeared,  were  a  special  hobby 
of  his!  Morocco-bound  note-books  particular 
ly.  And  when  it  came  to  faintly  soggy  Moroc 
co-bound  note-books,  words  were  inadequate 
it  seemed  to  express  his  appreciation.  Noth 
ing  would  do  but  the  May  Girl  must  inscribe 
it  for  him.  "Aiberner  Kollins,"  she  wrote 
very  carefully  in  her  round,  childish  hand, 
with  a  giggly  flourish  at  the  tail-tip  of  each 
word.  "For  Aberner  Rollins  from  his  friend 
May  Davies.  Awful  Shipwreck  Time,  May 
10th,  1919. "  Rollins  used  an  inestimable  num 
ber  of  note-books  it  appeared  in  the  collection 


84  RAINY   WEEK 

of  his  statistics.  "The  collection  of  statistics 
was  the  consuming  passion  of  his  life,"  he 
confided  to  everybody.  "The  consuming  pas 
sion  I"  he  reiterated  emphatically.  "Already/' 
he  affirmed,  "he  had  revised  and  reaudited  the 
whole  fresh-egg-account  of  his  own  family 
for  the  last  three  generations!  In  a  single 
slender  tone,"  he  bragged,  "he  held  listed  the 
favorite  flowers  of  all  living  novelists  both  of 
America  and  England!  Another  tome  bulged 
with  the  evidence  that  would-be  suicides  in 
variably  waited  for  pleasant  weather  in  which 
to  accomplish  their  self-destruction!  In  re 
gard  to  the  little  black  Morocco  volume,"  he 
kindled  ecstatically,  "he  had  already  dedi 
cated  it  to  a  very  interesting  new  thought 
which  had  just  occurred  to  him  that  evening, 
apropos  of  a  little  remark — a  most  signifi 
cant  little  remark  that  had  been  dropped  dur 
ing  the  breakfast  chat.  ...  If  anyone  was 
really  interested — "  he  suggested  hopefully. 

Nobody  was  the  slightest  bit  interested! 
Nobody  paid  the  remotest  attention  to  him ! 
Everybody  was  still  too  much  excited  about 
the  shipwreck,  and  planning  how  best  to  sal 
vage  such  loot  as  remained. 

"And  maybe  by  to-morrow  there'll  be  even 


RAINY  WEEK  85 

more  things  washed  up!"  sparkled  the  May 
Girl.  "A  real  India  shawl  perhaps!  A  set 
of  chess-men  carved  from  a  whale's  tooth! 
Only,  of  course — if  it  should  rain  as  hard — " 
she  drooped  as  suddenly  as  she  had  sparkled. 

"It  can't!'*  said  young  Kennilworth.  Even 
with  the  fresh  crash  of  wind  and  rain  at  the 
casement  he  made  the  assertion  arrogantly. 
"It  isn't  in  the  mind  of  God,"  he  said,  "to 
make  two  days  as  rainy  as  this  one."  The 
little  black  Pomeranian  believed  him  anyway, 
and  came  sniffing  out  of  the  shadows  to  see  if 
the  arrogantly  gesticulative  young  hand  held 
also  the  gift  of  lump  sugar  as  well  as  of 
prophecy. 

It  was  immediately  after  supper  that  the 
May  Girl  decided  to  investigate  the  possibil 
ities  and  probabilities  of  her  "toy  village." 

Somewhat  patronizingly  at  first  but  with  a 
surprisingly  rapid  kindling  of  enthusiasm, 
young  Kennilworth  conceded  his  assistance. 

The  storm  outside  grew  wilder  and  wilder. 
The  scene  inside  grew  snugger  and  snugger. 
The  room  was  warm,  the  lamps  well  shaded, 
the  tables  piled  with  books,  the  chairs  them 
selves  deep  as  waves.  "Loai  and  let  loaf" 
was  the  motto  of  the  evening. 


86  RAINY   WEEK 

By  pulling  the  huge  wolf-skin  rug  away 
from  the  hearth,  the  May  Girl  and  young 
Kennilworth  achieved  for  their  village  a  plane 
of  smoothness  and  light  that  gleamed  as  fair 
and  sweet  as  a  real  village  common  at  high 
noon.  Curled  up  in  a  fluff  of  white  the  May 
Girl  sat  cross-legged  in  the  middle  of  it 
superintending  operations  through  a  maze  of 
sunny  hair.  Stretched  out  at  full-length  on 
the  floor  beside  her,  looking  for  all  the  world 
like  some  beautiful  exotic-faced  little  lad, 
young  Kennilworth  lay  on  his  elbows,  adjust 
ing,  between  incongruous  puffs  of  cigarette 
smoke,  the  faintly  shattered  outline  of  a  minia 
ture  church  and  spire,  or  soothing  a  blister 
of  salt  sea  tears  from  the  paint-crackled  visage 
of  a  tiny  villa.  Softly  the  firelight  flickered 
and  flamed  across  their  absorbed  young  faces. 
Mysteriously  the  wisps  of  cigarette  smoke 
merged  realities  with  unrealities. 

It  was  an  entrancing  picture.  And  one  by 
one  everybody  in  the  room  except  Eollins  and 
myself  became  drawn  more  or  less  into  it. 

"If  you're  going  to  do  it  at  all,"  argued 
Paul  Brenswick,  "you  might  as  well  do  it 
right !  When  you  start  in  to  lay  out  a  village 
you  know  there  are  certain  general  scientific 


RAINY  WEEK  87 

principles  that  must  be  observed.  Now  that 
list  to  the  floor  there!  What  about  drainage? 
Can't  you  see  that  you've  started  the  whole 
thing  entirely  wrong?" 

"But  I  wanted  it  to  face  toward  the  fire," 
drooped  the  May  Girl,  "like  a  village  looking 
on  the  wonders  of  Vesuvius." 

"Vesuvius  nothing!"  insisted  Paul  Brens- 
wick.  "It's  got  to  have  good  drainage!" 

Enchanted  by  his  seriousness,  the  Bride 
rushed  off  up-stairs  with  her  scissors  to  rip 
the  foliage  off  her  second-best  hat  to  make  a 
hedge  for  the  church-yard.  Even  Allan  John 
came  sliding  just  a  little  bit  out  of  his  chair 
when  he  noted  that  there  was  a  large,  rather 
humpy  papier-mache  mountain  in  the  outfit 
that  seemed  likely  to  be  discarded. 

"I  would  like  to  have  that  mountain  put 
— there!"  he  pointed.  "Against  that  table 
shadow  .  .  .  And  the  mountain's  name  is  Blue 
Blurr!" 

"Oh,  very  well,"  acquiesced  everybody. 
"The  mountain's  name  is  Blue  Blurr!"  It 
was  George  Keets  who  suggested  taking  the 
little  bronze  Psyche  from  the  mantelpiece  to 
make  a  monument  for  the  public  square.  "Of 
course  there'll  be  some  in  your  village,"  he 


88  RAINY   WEEK 

deprecated,  "who'll  object  to  its  being  a  nude. 
But  as  a  classic  it " 

"It's  a  bear!  It's  a  bear!  It's  a  bear!" 
chanted  Kennilworth  in  exultant  falsetto. 
"Speaking  of  classics!" 

"Hush!"  said  George  Keets.  .  .  .  George 
Keets  really  wanted  very  much  to  play,  I 
think,  but  he  didn't  know  exactly  how  to,  so 
he  tried  to  talk  highbrow  instead.  "This 
village  of  yours,"  he  frowned,  "I — I  hope  it's 
going  to  have  good  government?" 

"Well,  it  isn't!"  snapped  young  Kennil 
worth.  "It's  going  to  be  a  terror!  But  at 
least  it  shall  be  pretty!" 

Under  young  Kennilworth 's  crafty  hand  the 
little  village  certainly  had  bloomed  from  a 
child's  pretty  toy  into  the  very  real  beauty 
of  an  artist's  ideal.  The  skill  of  laying  out 
little  streets  one  way  instead  of  another, 
the  decision  to  place  the  tiny  red  schoolhouse 
here  instead  of  there,  the  choice  of  a  linden 
rather  than  a  pinetree  to  shade  an  infinite  sti- 
mal  green-thatched  cottage,  had  all  combined 
in  some  curious  twinge  of  charm  to  make  your 
senses  yearn — not  that  all  that  cunning  perfec 
tion  should  swell  suddenly  to  normal  real  estate 
dimensions  —  but  that  you,  reduced  by  some 


RAINY  WEEK  89 

lovely  miracle  to  toy-size,  might  slip  across 
that  toy-sized  greensward  into  one  of  those 
toy-sized  houses,  and  live  with  toy-sized  pas 
sions  and  toy-sized  ambitions  and  toy-sized 
joys  and  toy-sized  sorrows,  one  single  hour  of 
a  toy-sized  life. 

Everybody,  I  guess,  experienced  the  same 
strange  little  flutter. 

"That  house  shall  be  mine!"  affirmed 
George  Keets  quite  abruptly.  "That  gray 
stone  one  with  the  big  bay-window  and  the 
pink  rambler  rose.  The  bay-window  room  I'm 
sure  would  make  me  a  fine  study.  And " 

From  an  excessively  delicate  readjustment 
of  a  loose  shutter  on  a  rambling  brown  bunga 
low  young  Kennilworth  looked  up  with  a  cer 
tain  flicker  of  exasperation. 

"Live  anywhere  you  choose !"  he  snapped. 
"Miss  Davies  and  I  are  going  to  live  — 
here!" 

«W  —  What?"  stammered  the  May  Girl. 
"What?" 

"Here!"  grinned  young  Kennilworth. 

"Oh— no,"  said  the  May  Girl.  Without 
showing  the  slightest  offense  she  seemed  sud 
denly  to  be  quite  positive  about  it.  "Oh,  no! 
5— If  I  live  anywhere  it's  going  to  be  in  the 


90  RAINY  WEEK 

gray  stone  house  with  Mr.  Keets.  It's  so  in 
finitely  more  convenient  to  the  schools." 

"To  the  what?"  chuckled  Kennilworth.  Be 
fore  the  very  evident  astonishment  and  dis 
comfiture  in  George  Keets 's  face,  his  own  was 
convulsed  with  joy. 

"To  the  schools,"  dimpled  the  May  Girl. 

"You  do  me  a — a  very  great  honor,"  bowed 
George  Keets.  His  face  was  scarlet. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  May  Girl. 

In  the  second's  somewhat  panicky  pause 
Ithat  ensued  Rollins  flopped  forward  with  his 
note-book.  Rollins  evidently  had  been  waiting 
a  long  and  impatient  time  for  such  a  pause. 

"Now  speaking  of  drinking  to  drown  one's 
sorrows — "  beamed  Rollins. 

"But  we  weren't!"  observed  George  Keets 
coldly. 

"But  you  were  this  morning!"  triumphed 
Rollins.  From  the  flapping  white  pages  of 
the  little  black  note-book  he  displayed  with 
pride  the  entries  that  he  had  already  made, 
— a  separate  name  heading  each  page — Mrs. 
Delville  —  Mr.  Delville  —  Mr.  Keets  —  Miss 
Davies — the  list  began.  "Now  take  the  hy 
pothesis,"  glowed  Rollins,  "that  everybody 
has  got  just  two  bottles  stowed  away  for  all 


RAINY   WEEK  91 

time, — the  very  last  bottles  I  mean  that  he 
will  ever  own,  rum  —  rye  —  benedictine  —  any 
thing  you  choose — and  eliminating  the  first 
bottle  as  the  less  significant  of  the  two — what 
are  you  saving  the  last  one  for!"  demanded 
Rollins. 

From  a  furtive  glance  at  Allan  John's 
graying  face  and  the  May  Girl's  somewhat 
startled  stare,  young  Kennilworth  looked  up 
with  a  rather  peculiarly  glinting  smile. 

"Oh,  that's  easy,"  said  he,  "I'm  saving 
mine  to  break  the  head  of  some  bally  fool!" 

"And  my  last  bottle,"  interposed  George 
Keets  quickly.  "My  last  bottle — !"  In  his 
fine  ascetic  face  the  flush  deepened  suddenly 
again,  but  with  the  flush  the  faintest  possible 
little  smile  showed  also  at  the  lip-line.  "Oh, 
I  suppose  if  I'm  really  going  to  have  a  wed 
ding — in  that  little  gray  toy  house,  it's  up  to 
me  to  save  mine  for  a  *  Loving  Cup'  .  .  . 
claret  .  .  .  Something  very  mild  and  rosy  .  .  . 
Yes,  mine  shall  be  claret." 

With  her  pretty  nose  crinkled  in  what 
seemed  like  a  particularly  abstruse  reflection, 
the  May  Girl  glanced  up. 

"Bene — benedictine?"  she  questioned.     "Is 


92  RAINY   WEEK 

that  the  stuff  that  smells  the  way  stars  would 
taste  if  you  ate  them  raw?" 

"I  really  can't  say,"  mused  Kennilworth. 
"I  don't  think  I  ever  ate  a  perfectly  raw 
star.  At  the  night-lunch  carts  I  think  they 
almost  invariably  fry  them  on  both  sides." 

" Night-lunch  carts'?"  scoffed  Keets,  with 
what  seemed  to  me  like  rather  unnecessary 
acerbity.  "N — o,  somehow  I  don't  seem  to 
picture  you  in  a  night-lunch  cart  when  it  comes 
time  to  share  your  last  bottle  of  champagne 
with — with — 'Miss  Dancy-Prancy — of  the  Sil 
lies,'— wasn't  it?" 

"My  last  bottle  isn't  champagne!"  flared 
young  Kennilworth.  "It's  scotch!  .  .  .  And 
there'll  be  no  Miss  Anybody  in  it,  thank  you!" 
His  face  was  really  angry,  and  one  twitch  of 
his  foot  had  knocked  half  his  village  into 
chaos.  "Oh,  all  right,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm 
going  to  do  with  my  last  bottle!"  he  frowned. 
"The  next-to-the-last-one,  as  you  say,  is  none 
of  your  business!  But  the  last  one  is  going 
to  my  Old  Man!  ...  I  come  from  Kansas," 
he  acknowledged  a  bit  shamefacedly.  "From 
a  shack  no  bigger  than  this  room  .  .  .  And 
my  Old  Man  lives  there  yet  .  .  .  And  he's 
always  been  used  to  having  a  taste  of  some- 


RAINY   WEEK 

thing  when  he  wanted  it  and  I  guess  he  misses 
it  some.  .  .  .  And  he'll  be  eighty  years  old  the 
15th  of  next  December.  I'm  going  home 
for  it.  ...  I  haven't  been  home  for  seven 
years.  .  .  .  But  my  Old  Man  is  going  to  get 
his  scotch!  ...  If  they  yank  me  off  at  every 
railroad  station  and  shoot  me  at  sunrise  each 
new  day, — my  Old  Man  is  going  to  get  his 
scotch ! ' ' 

"Bully  for  you,"  said  George  Keets. 

"All  the  same,"  argued  the  May  Girl,  "I 
think  benedictine  smells  better." 

With  a  little  gaspy  breath  somebody  dis 
covered  what  had  happened  to  the  Village. 

"Who  did  that?"  demanded  Paul  Brens- 
wick. 

"You   did!"   snapped  young   Kennilworth. 

"I  didn't,  either,"  protested  Brenswick. 

"Why  of  all  cheeky  things!"  cried  the 
Bride. 

"Now  see  here,"  I  admonished  them, 
"you're  all  very  tired  and  very  irritable. 
And  I  suggest  that  you  all  pack  off  to  bed." 

Helping  the  May  Girl  up  from  her  cramped 
position,  George  Keets  bent  low  for  a  single 
exaggerated  moment  over  her  proffered  hand. 

"I  certainly  think  you  are  making  a  mis- 


94  RAINY   WEEK 

take,  Miss  Davies,"  bantered  young  Kennil- 
worth.  "For  a  long  run,  of  course,  Mr. 
Keets  might  be  better,  but  for  a  short  run  I 
am  almost  sure  that  you  would  have  been 
jollier  in  the  brown  bungalow  with  me." 

"Time  will  tell,"  dimpled  the  May  Girl. 

"Then  I  really  may  consider  us — formally 
engaged?"  smiled  George  Keets,  still  bending 
low  over  her  hand.  He  was  really  rather 
amused,  I  think — and  quite  as  much  embar 
rassed  as  he  was  amused. 

"No,  not  exactly  formally,"  dimpled  the 
May  Girl.  "But  until  breakfast  time  to-mor 
row  morning." 

"Until  breakfast  time  to-morrow  morn 
ing,"  hooted  young  Kennilworth.  "That's 
the  deuce  of  a  funny  time-limit  to  put  on  an 
engagement  ...  It's  like  asking  a  person  to 
go  skating  when  there  isn't  any  ice!  .  .  ." 

"Is  it?"  puzzled  the  May  Girl. 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  expect  Keets  to 
get  out  of  it?"  quizzed  young  Kennilworth. 

In  an  instant  the  May  Girl  was  all  smiles 
again.  "He'll  get  mentioned  in  my  prayers," 
she  said.  "  'Please  bless  Mr.  Keets,  my 
nance-till-to-morrow-morning.'  " 


RAINY   WEEK  95 

* '  That 's  certainly  —  something, ' '  conceded 
George  Keets. 

"It  isn't  enough," — protested  Kennilworth. 

The  May  Girl  stared  round  appealingly  at 
her  interlocutors. 

"But  the  time  is  so  awfully  short,"  she 
said,  "and  I  did  want  to  get  engaged  to  aa 
many  boys  as  possible  in  the  week  I  was 
here." 

"What— what!"  I  babbled. 

"Yes,  for  very  special  reasons,"  said  the 
May  Girl,  "I  would  like  to  get  engaged  to  as- 
many " 

With  a  strut  like  the  strut  of  a  young  ban 
tam  rooster,  Eollins  pushed  his  way  sud 
denly  into  the  limelight. 

"If  it  will  be  the  slightest  accommodation 
to  you,"  he  affirmed,  "you  may  consider  your 
self  engaged  to  me  to-morrow!" 

Disconcerted  as  she  was,  the  May  Girl 
swallowed  the  bitter,  unexpected  dose  with 
infinitely  less  grimace  than  one  would  have 
expected.  She  even  smiled  a  little. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Kollins,"  she  said,  "I  will 
be  engaged  to  you — to-morrow." 

Young  Kennilworth 's  dismay  exploded  in  a 


96  RAINY   WEEK 

single  exclamation.  "Well  —  you  —  certainly 
are  an  extraordinary  young  person!" 

"Yes,  I  know,'*  deprecated  the  May  Girl. 
"It's  because  I'm  so  tall,  I  suppose " 

Before  the  unallayed  breathlessness  of  my 
expression  she  wilted  like  a  worried  flower. 

"Yes,  of  course,  I  know,  Mrs.  Delville,"  she 
acknowledged,  "that  mock  marriages  aren't 
considered  very  good  taste  .  .  .  But  a  mock 
engagement?"  she  wheedled.  "If  it's  con 
ducted,  oh,  very  —  very  —  very  properly?" 
Her  eyes  were  wide  with  pleading. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  I  suggested,  "if  it's  con 
ducted  very — very — very  properly!" 

Across  the  May  Girl's  lovely  pink  and  white 
cheeks  the  dark  lashes  fringed  down. 

* '  There — will — be — no — kissing, ' '  affirmed 
the  May  Girl. 

"Oh,  Shucks!"  protested  young  Kennil- 
worth.  "Now  you've  spoiled  everything." 

Out  of  the  corner  of  one  eye  I  saw  Rollins 
nudge  Paul  Brenswick.  It  was  not  a  facetious 
nudge,  but  one  quite  markedly  earnest.  The 
whole  expression  indeed  on  Rollins 's  face  was 
an  expression  of  acute  determination. 

With  laughter  and  song  and  a  flicker  of 
candlelight  everybody  filed  up-stairs  to  bed. 


RAINY  WEEK  97 

Eollins  carried  his  candle  with  the  partic 
ularly  unctuous  pride  of  one  who  leads  a 
torchlight  procession.  And  as  he  turned  on 
the  upper  landing  and  looked  back,  I  noted 
that  -behind  the  almost  ribald  excitement  on 
his  face  there  lurked  a  look  of  poignant  wist- 
fulness. 

"I've  never  been  engaged  before,"  he  con 
fided  grinningly  to  Paul  Brenswick.  "I'd  like 
to  make  the  most  of  it  .  .  ." 

Passing  into  my  own  room  I  flung  back  the 
casement  windows  for  a  revivifying  slash  of 
wind  and  rain,  before  I  should  collapse  ut 
terly  into  the  white  scrumptiousness  of  my 
bed.  Frankly,  I  was  very  tired. 

It  must  have  been  almost  midnight  when 
I  woke  to  see  my  Husband's  dark  figure  sil 
houetted  in  the  bright  square  of  the  door. 
Through  the  depths  of  my  weariness  a  con 
suming  curiosity  struggled. 

"Did  Ann  Woltor  come  back?"  I  asked. 

"She  did!"  said  my  Husband  succinctly. 

"And  how  did  you  get  on  with  Allan 
John?" 

"Oh,  I'm  crazy  about  Allan  John,"  I 
yawned  amiably.  And  then  with  one  of  those 
perfectly  inexplainable  nerve-explosions  that 


98  RAINY   WEEK 

astonishes  no  one  as  much  as  it  astonishes 
oneself  I  struggled  up  on  my  elbow. 

"But  he's  still  got  my  best  silver  saltshaker 
in  his  pocket ! ' '  I  cried. 

It  was  then  that  the  scream  of  a  siren  whistle 
tore  like  some  fear-maddened  voice  through 
the  whole  house.  Shriller  than  knives  it 
ripped  and  screeched  into  the  senses!  Doors 
banged!  Feet  thudded! 

*  *  There 's  Allan  John  now ! ' '  I  gasped.  "  It 's 
the  whistle  the  May  Girl  gave  him!" 


CHAPTER  HI 

EVERYBODY  looked  pretty  tired  when 
they  came  down  to  breakfast  the  next 
morning.    But  at  least  everybody  came 
down.     Even    Rollins!     Never   have    I    seen 
Rollins  so  really  addicted  to  coming  down  to 
breakfast ! 

Poor  Allan  John,  of  course,  was  all  over 
whelmed  again  with  humiliation  and  despair, 
and  quite  heroically  insistent  on  removing  his 
presence  as  expeditiously  as  possible  from  our 
house  party.  It  was  his  whistle  that  had 
screeched  so  in  the  night.  And  as  far  as  he 
knew  he  hadn't  the  slightest  reason  or  excuse 
for  so  screeching  it  beyond  the  fact  that,  rous 
ing  half-awake  and  half-asleep  from  a  most 
horrible  nightmare,  he  had  reached  instinct 
ively  for  the  little  whistle  under  his  pillow, 
and  not  realizing  what  he  was  doing,  cried 
for  help,  not  just  to  man  alone  it  would  seemr 
but  to  High  Heaven  itself! 
"But  however  in  the  world  did  yon  happen 

99 


100  RAINY   WEEK 

to  have  the  whistle  under  your  pillow?"  puz 
zled  the  Bride. 

"What  else  have  I  got?"  answered  Allan 
John. 

He  was  perfectly  right!  Robbed  for  all 
time  of  his  wife  and  child,  stripped  for  the 
ill-favored  moment  of  all  personal  moneys  and 
proofs  of  identity,  sojourning  even  in  other 
men's  linen,  what  did  Allan  John  hold  as  a 
nucleus  for  the  New  Day  except  a  little  silver 
toy  from  another  person's  shipwreck?  (Once 
I  knew  a  smashed  man  who  didn't  possess 
even  a  toy  to  begin  a  new  day  on — so  he  didn't 
begin  it!) 

"Well,  of  course,  it  was  pretty  rackety  while 
it  lasted,"  conceded  young  Kennilworth.  "But 
at  least  it  gave  us  a  chance  to  admire  each 
other's  lingeries." 

"Negligees,"  corrected  George  Keets. 

"I  said  'scare-clothes'!"  snapped  young 
Kennilworth.  "Everybody  who  travels  by 
land  or  sea  or  puts  in  much  time  at  house 
parties  ought  to  have  at  least  one  round  of 
scare-clothes,  one  really  chic  'escaping  suit.' 

"The  silver  whistle  is  mine,"  intercepted 
the  May  Girl  with  some  dignity.  "Mine  and 
Allan  John's.  I  found  it  and  gave  it  to  Allan 


RAINY   WEEK  101 

John.  And  he  can  blow  it  any  time  he  wants 
to,  day  or  night.  But  as  long  as  you  people 
all  made  so  much  fuss  about  it — and  looked 
so  funny,"  dimpled  the  May  Girl  transiently, 
"we  will  consider  that  after  this — any  time 
the  whistle  blows — the  call  is  just  for  me." 
The  May  Girl's  gravely  ingenuous  glance 
swept  down  in  sudden  challenge  across  the 
somewhat  amused  faces  of  her  companions, 
"Allan  John — is  mine!"  she  confided  with 
some  incisiveness.  "I  found  him — too!" 

"Do  you  acknowledge  that  ownership,  Allan 
John!"  demanded  young  Kennilworth. 

Even  Allan  John's  sombre  eyes  twinkled 
the  faintest  possible  glint  of  amusement. 

"I  acknowledge  that  ownership,"  acquiesced 
Allan  John. 

"Now  see  here! — I  protest,"  rallied  George 
Keets.  "Most  emphatically  I  protest  against 
my  fiancee  assuming  any  masculine  responsi 
bilities  except  me  during  the  brief  term  of 
our  engagement!" 

"But  your  engagement  is  already  over!" 
jeered  young  Kennilworth.  "Nice  kind  of 
Lochinvar  you  are — drifting  down-stairs  just 
exactly  on  the  stroke  of  the  breakfast  bell! — 
'until  breakfast  time'  were  the  terms,  I  be- 


102  RAINY   WEEK 

lieve.  Now  Rollins  here  has  been  up  since 
dawn!  Banging  in  and  out  of  the  house! 
Racing  up  and  down  the  front  walk  in  the 
rain!  Now  that's  what  I  call  real  passion! 

At  the  very  first  mention  of  his  name  Rollins 
had  come  sliding  way  forward  to  the  edge  of 
his  chair.  He  hadn't  apparently  expected  to 
be  engaged  till  after  breakfast.  But  if  there 
was  any  conceivable  chance,  of  course 

"All  ready — any  time!"  beamed  Rollins. 

"Through — breakfast  time  was  what  I  un 
derstood,"  said  George  Keets  coldly. 

"Through  breakfast  time  was — was  what  I 
meant,"  stammered  the  May  Girl.  From  the 
only  too  palpable  excitement  on  Rollins 's  face 
to  George  Keets 's  chill  immobility  she  turned 
with  the  faintest  possible  gesture  of  appeal. 
Her  eyes  looked  suddenly  just  a  little  bit 
frightened.  "A — after  all,"  she  confided,  "I 
— I  didn't  know  as  I  feel  quite  well  enough 
to-day  to  be  engaged  so  much.  Maybe  I 
caught  a  little  cold  yesterday.  Sometimes  I 
don't  sleep  very  well.  Once " 

"Oh,  come  now,"  insisted  young  Kennil- 
worth.  "Don't,  for  Heaven's  sake,  be  a  quit 
ter!" 

"A—4 quitter'?"  bridled  the  May  Girl.    Her 


RAINY   WEEK  103 

cheeks  went  suddenly  very  pink.  And  then 
suddenly  very  white.  Like  an  angry  little 
storm-cloud  that  absurd  fluff  of  gray  hair 
shadowed  down  for  an  instant  across  her 
sharply  averted  face.  A  glint  of  tears  threat 
ened.  Then  out  of  the  gray  and  the  gold  and 
the  blue  and  the  pink  and  the  tears,  the  jol- 
liest  sort  of  a  little-girl-giggle  issued  suddenly. 
"Oh,  all  right!"  said  the  May  Girl  and  slipped 
with  perfect  docility  apparently  into  the  chair 
that  George  Keets  had  drawn  out  for  her. 

George  Keets  I  really  think  was  infinitely 
more  frightened  than  she  was,  but  in  his  case, 
at  least,  a  seventeen  years'  lead  in  experience 
had  taught  him  long  since  the  advisability  of 
disguising  such  emotions.  Even  at  the  dining- 
table  of  a  sinking  ship  George  Keets  I'm  al 
most  certain  would  never  have  ceased  passing 
salts  and  peppers,  proffering  olives  and  rad 
ishes,  or  making  perfectly  sure  that  your 
coffee  was  just  exactly  the  way  you  liked  it. 
In  the  present  emergency,  to  cover  not  only 
his  own  confusion  but  the  ^May  Girl's,  he 
proceeded  to  talk  archseology.  By  talking 
archaeology  in  an  undertone  with  a  faintly 
amorous  inflection  to  the  longest  and  least 
intelligible  words,  George  Keets  really  be- 


104  RAINY   WEEK 

lieved  I  think  that  he  was  giving  a  rather 
clever  imitation  of  an  engaged  man.  What 
the  May  Girl  thought  no  one  could  possibly 
have  guessed.  The  May  Girl's  face  was  a 
study,  but  it  was  at  least  turning  up  to  his  I 
Whether  she  understood  a  single  thing  he 
said,  or  was  only  resting,  whether  she  was 
truly  amused  or  merely  deferring  as  long  as 
possible  her  unhappy  fate  with  Rollins,  she 
sat  as  one  entranced. 

Slipping  into  the  chair  directly  opposite 
them,  young  Kennilworth  watched  the  pro 
ceedings  with  malevolent  joy.  Between  his 
very  frank  contempt  for  the  dulness  of  George 
Keets's  methods,  and  his  perfectly  palpable 
desire  to  keep  poor  Rollins  tantalized  as  long 
as  possible,  he  scarcely  knew  which  side  to 
play  on. 

Everybody  indeed  except  Ann  Woltor 
seemed  to  take  a  more  or  less  mischievous 
delight  in  prolonging  poor  Rollins 'a  suspense. 
Allan  John  never  lifted  his  eyes  from  his 
coffee  cup,  but  at  least  he  showed  no  signs 
of  disapproval  or  haste.  Even  George  Keets, 
to  the  eyes  of  a  close  observer,  seemed  to  be 
dallying  rather  unduly  with  his  knife  and  fork 
as  well  as  with  his  embarrassment. 


RAINY   WEEK  105 

As  the  breakfast  hour  dragged  along,  poor 
Rollins 's  impatience  grew  apace.  Fidgeting 
round  and  round  in  his  chair,  scowling  fero 
ciously  at  anyone  who  dared  to  ask  for  a 
second  service  of  anything,  dashing  out  into 
the  hall  every  now  and  then  on  perfectly  inex- 
plainable  errands,  he  looked  for  all  the  world 
like  some  wry-faced  clown  performing  by  ac 
cident  in  a  business  suit. 

"Really,  Rollins,"  admonished  my  Husband. 
"I  think  it  would  have  been  a  bit  more  delicate 
of  you  if  you'd  kept  out  of  sight  somehow  till 
Keets*  affair  was  over — this  hovering  round 
so  through  the  harrowing  last  moments — all 
ready  to  pounce — hanged  if  I  don't  think  it's 
crude ! ' ' 

"Crude?  —  it's  plain  buzzard-y!"  scoffed 
Kennilworth. 

It  was  the  Bride's  warm,  romantic  heart 
that  called  the  time-limit  finally  on  George 
Keets's  philandering. 

"Really,  I  don't  think  it's  quite  fair,"  whis 
pered  the  Bride.  Taken  all  in  all  I  think  the 
Bridegroom  was  inclined  to  agree  with  her. 
But  stronger  than  anybody's  sense  of  justice, 
it  was  a  composite  sense  of  humor  that  sped 
Rollins  to  his  heart's  desire.  Even  Ann  Wol- 


106  RAINY   WEEK 

tor,  I  think,  was  curious  to  see  just  how 
Rollins  would  figure  as  an  engaged  man. 

The  May  Girl's  parting  with  George  Keets 
was  at  least  mercifully  brief. 

"Does  he  kiss  my  hand?"  questioned  the 
May  Girl. 

"No — I  think  not,"  flushed  George  Keets. 
Having  no  intention  in  the  world  of  kissing 
any  woman  in  earnest,  it  was  not  in  his  code, 
apparently,  to  kiss  a  young  girl  in  fun.  Very 
formally,  with  that  frugal,  tight-lipped  smile 
of  his  which  contrasted  so  curiously  with  the 
rather  accentuated  virility  of  his  shoulders, 
he  rose  and  bowed  low  over  the  May  Girl's 
proffered  fingers.  "Really  it's  been  a  great 
honor.  I've  enjoyed  it  immensely!"  he  con 
ceded. 

"Thank  you,"  murmured  the  May  Girl.  In 
a  single  impulse  everybody  turned  to  look  at 
Rollins,  only  to  find  that  Rollins  had  disap 
peared. 

"Hi,  there,  Rollins!  Rollins!"  shouted 
young  Kennilworth.  "You're  losing  time!" 

As  though  waiting  dramatically  for  just  this 
cue,  the  hall  portieres  parted  slightly,  and  there 
stood  Rollins  grinning  like  a  Cheshire  Cat, 
with  a  great  bunch  of  purple  orchids  clasped 


RAINY   WEEK  107 

in  one  hand!  Now  we  are  sixty  miles  from  a 
florist  and  the  only  neighbor  of  our  acquaint 
ance  who  boasts  a  greenhouse  is  a  most  esti 
mable  but  exceedingly  close-fisted  flower-fan 
cier,  who  might  under  certain  conditions,  I 
must  admit,  give  bread  at  the  back  door,  but 
who  never  under  any  circumstances  whatso 
ever  has  been  known  to  give  orchids  at  the 
front  door.  Nor  did  I  quite  see  Rollins  even 
in  a  rain-storm  actually  breaking  laws  or  glass 
to  achieve  his  floral  purpose.  Yet  there  stood 
Rollins  in  our  front  hall,  at  half-past  nine  in 
the  morning,  with  a  very  extravagant  bunch 
of  purple  orchids  in  his  hand. 

"Well — bully  for  you!"  gasped  young  Ken- 
nilworth.  "Now  that's  what  I  call  not  being 
a  mutt!" 

Beaming  with  pride  Rollins  stepped  forward 
and  presented  his  offering,  the  grin  on  Ms 
face  never  wavering. 

"Just  a — just  a  trifling  token  of  my  esteem, 
Miss  Davies!"  he  affirmed.  "To  say  nothing 
of—of » 

The  May  Girl,  I  think,  had  never  had  or 
chids  presented  to  her  before.  It  is  something 
indeed  of  an  experience  all  in  itself  to  see 
a  young  girl  receive  her  first  orchids.  The 


108 

faint  astonishment  and  regret  to  find  that 
after  all  they're  not  nearly  as  darling  and 
cosy  as  violets  or  roses  or  even  carnations — 
the  sudden  contradictory  flare  of  sex-pride 
and  importance — flashed  like  so  much  large 
print  across  the  May  Girl's  fluctuant  face. 

"Why — why  they're — wonderful!"  she  stam 
mered. 

Producing  from  Heaven  knows  what  an 
tique  pin-cushion  a  hat-pin  that  would  have 
easily  impaled  the  May  Girl  like  a  butterfly 
against  the  wall,  Rollins  completed  the  pres 
entation.  But  the  end  it  seemed  was  not  yet. 
Fumbling  through  his  pockets  he  produced  a 
small  wad  of  paper,  and  from  that  small  wad 
of  paper  a  large  old-fashioned  seal  ring  with 
several  strands  of  silk  thread  dangling  from  it. 

"Of  course  at  such  short  notice,"  beamed 
Rollins,  "one  couldn't  expect  to  do  much.  But 
if  you  don't  mind  things  being  a  bit  old-timey, 
— this  ring  of  my  great  uncle  Aberner's — if 
we  tie  it  on — perhaps?" 

Whereupon,  lashing  the  ring  then  and  there 
to  the  May  Girl's  astonished  finger,  Rollins 
proceeded  to  tuck  the  May  Girl's  whole  aston 
ished  hand  into  the  crook  of  his  arm,  and  start 
off  with  her  —  still  grinning  —  to  promenade 


RAINY   WEEK  109 

the  long  sheltered  glassed-in  porch,  across 
whose  rain-blurred  windows  the  storm  raged 
by  more  like  a  sound  than  a  sight. 

The  May  Girl's  face  was  crimson! 

"Well — it  was  all  yonr  own  idea,  you  know, 
this  getting  engaged!"  taunted  Kennilworth. 

It  was  not  a  very  good  moment  to  taunt 
the  May  Girl.  My  Husband  saw  it  I  think 
even  before  I  did. 

"Really,  Rollins,"  he  suggested,  "you 
mustn't  overdo  this  arm-in-arm  business.  Not 
all  day  long!  It  isn't  done!  Not  this  ball- 
and-chain  idea  any  more!  Not  this  shackling 
of  the  betrothed!" 

"No,  really,  Rollins,  old  man,"  urged  young 
Kennilworth,  "you've  got  quite  the  wrong 
idea.  You  say  yourself  you've  never  been 
engaged  before,  so  you'd  better  let  some  of 
us  wiser  guys  coach  you  up  a  bit  in  some  of 
the  essentials." 

"Coach  me  up  a  bit?"  growled  Rollins. 

"Why,  you  didn't  suppose  for  a  minute,  did 
you,"  persisted  young  Kennilworth  torment- 
ingly,  "that  there  was  any  special  fun  about 
being  engaged?  You  didn't  think  for  a  mo 
ment,  I  mean,  that  yon  were  really  going  to 


110  RAINY   WEEK 

have  any  sort  of  good  time  to-day?  Not  both 
of  you,  I  mean?" 

"Eh?"  jerked  Rollins,  stopping  suddenly 
short  in  his  tracks,  but  with  the  May  Girl's 
reluctant  hand  still  wedged  fast  into  the  crook 
of  his  arm,  he  stood  defying  his  tormentor. 
"Eh?  What?" 

"Why  I  never  in  the  world,"  mused  Ken- 
nilworth,  "ever  heard  of  two  engaged  people 
having  a  good  time  the  same  day.  One  or  the 
other  of  them  always  has  to  give  up  the  one 
thrilling  thing  that  he  yearned  most  to  do  and 
devote  his  whole  time  to  pretending  that  he's 
perfectly  enraptured  doing  some  stupid  fuddy- 
duddy  stunt  that  the  other  one  wanted  to  do. 
It's  simply  the  question  always  of — who  gives 
up!  Now,  Miss  Davies  for  instance — "  Mock 
ingly  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  May  Girl's 
unhappy  face.  "Now,  Miss  Davies,"  he  in 
sisted,  "more  than  anything  else  in  the  world 
to-day  what  would  you  like  to  do?" 

"Sew,"  said  the  May  Girl. 

"And  you,  Mr.  Eollins,"  persisted  Kennil- 
worth.  "If  it  wasn't  for  Miss  Davies  here — 
what  would  you  be  doing  to-day?" 

"I?"  quickened  Rollins.  "I?"  across  his 
impatient,  irritated  face,  an  expression  of 


RAINY   WEEK  111 

frankly  scientific  ecstasy  flared  up  like  an 
explosion.  "Why  those  shells,  you  know!" 
glowed  Rollins.  "That  last  consignment! 
Why  I  should  have  been  cataloging  shells!" 

"There  you  have  it!"  cried  Kennilworth. 
"Either  you've  got  to  sew  all  day  long  with 
Miss  Davies  —  or  else  she'll  have  to  catalog 
shells  with  you!" 

"Sew?"  hooted  Rollins. 

"Oh,  I'd  just  love  to  catalog  shells!"  cried 
the  May  Girl.  In  that  single  instant  the 
somewhat  indeterminate  quiver  of  her  lips  had 
bloomed  into  a  real  smile.  By  a  dexterous 
movement,  released  from  Rollins 's  arm,  she 
turned  and  fled  for  the  door.  "Up-stairs, 
you  mean,  don't  you?"  she  cried.  The  smile 
iiad  reached  her  eyes  now.  In  another  minute 
it  seemed  as  though  even  her  hair  would  be 
all  laughter.  "At  the  big  table  in  the  upper 
hall?  Where  you  were  working  yesterday? 
One,  on  one  side  of  the  table — and  one — the 
other?  And  one,  the  other!"  she  giggled  tri 
umphantly. 

With  unflagging  agility  Rollins  started  after 
her. 

"What  I  had  really  planned,"  he  grinned, 
"was  a  walk  on  the  beach." 


112  RAINY   WEEK 

"Arm  —  in  —  arm!"  mused  young  Kennil- 
worth. 

"Eh!  You  think  you're  smart,  don't  you!" 
grinned  Eollins. 

"Yes,  quite  so,"  acknowledged  Kennilworth. 
"But  if  you  really  want  to  see  smartness  on 
its  native  heath  just  pipe  your  eye  to-morrow 
when  I  dawn  on  the  horizon  as  an  engaged 
man!" 

"You?"  called  the  May  Girl.  Staring  back 
through  the  mahogany  banisters  her  face 
looked  fairly  striped  with  astonishment. 

"You  certainly  announced  your  desire," 
said  Kennilworth,  "to  go  right  through  the 
whole  list.  Didn't  you?'.' 

"Oh,  but  I  didn't  mean — everybody,"  par 
ried  the  May  Girl.  Her  mouth  and  her  eyes 
and  her  hair  were  all  laughing  together  now. 
"Oh,  Goodness  me — not  everybody!"  she  ges 
ticulated,  with  a  fine  air  of  disdain. 

"Not  the  married  men,"  explained  the 
Bride. 

"No,  I'm  sure  she  discriminated  against 
the  married  men,"  chuckled  the  Bridegroom. 

"Well  —  she  sha'n't  discriminate  against 
me!"  snapped  young  Kennilworth.  Absurd 
as  it  was  he  looked  angry.  Young  Kennil- 


RAINY   WEEK  113 

worth,  one  might  infer,  was  not  accustomed 
to  having  women  discriminate  against  him. 
"You  made  the  plan  and  you'll  jolly-well  keep 
to  it!"  affirmed  young  Kennilworth. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  laughed  the  May  Girl.  "If 
you  really  insist!  But  for  a  boy  who's  as 
truly  unselfish  as  you  are  about  nursery-gov- 
ernessing  other  people's  Pom  dogs,  and  sav 
ing  your  last  taste  of  anything  for  your  old  Old 
Daddy — you've  certainly  got  the  worst  man 
ners  ! ' ' 

"Manners!"  drawled  George  Keets.  "This 
is  no  test.  Wait — till  you  see  his  engagement 
manners!" 

"Oh,  she'll  'wait'  all  right!"  sniffed  young 
Kennilworth,  and  turned  on  his  heel. 

Paul  Brenswick,  searching  hard  through  the 
shipping  news  in  the  morning  paper,  looked 
up  with  a  faint  shadow  of  concern. 

"What's  the  grouch?"  he  questioned. 

Standing  with  her  hands  on  her  Bride 
groom's  shoulders  the  Bride  glanced  back 
from  the  stormy  window  to  Kennilworth 's 
face  with  a  somewhat  provocative  smile. 

"Well — it  was  in  the  mind  of  God,  wasn't 
it?"  she  said. 


114  RAINY   WEEK 

"What  was!"  demanded  young  Kennil- 
worth. 

"The  rain,"  shrugged  the  Bride. 

"Oh — damn  the  rain!"  cried  young  Ken- 
nilworth.  "I  wish  people  wouldn't  speak  to 
me!  It  drives  me  crazy  I  tell  you  to  have 
everybody  babbling  so!  Can't  you  see  I  want 
to  work?  Can't  anybody  see  —  anything?" 
Equally  furious  all  of  a  sudden  at  everybody, 
he  swung  around  and  darted  up  the  stairs. 
"Don't  anybody  call  me  to  lunch,"  he  or 
dered.  "For  Heaven's  sake  don't  let  anyone 
be  idiot  enough  to  call  me  to  lunch." 

Even  Ann  Woltor's  jaw  dropped  a  bit  at 
the  amazing  rudeness  and  peevishness  of  it. 

It  was  then  that  the  beaming  grin  on  Rol 
lins 's  face  flickered  out  for  a  single  instant  of 
incredulity  and  reproach. 

"Why  —  Miss  Woltor!"  he  choked,  "you 
didn't  have  your  tooth  fixed — after  all!" 

With  a  great  crackle  of  paper  every  man's 
face  seemed  buried  suddenly  in  the  shipping 
news. 

"No!"  I  heard  my  Husband's  voice  affirm 
with  extravagant  precision,  "not  the  slightest 
mention  anywhere  of  any  maritime  disaster." 

"Not  the  slightest!"  agreed  George  Keets. 


RAINY  WEEK  115 

"Not  the  slightest!"  echoed  Paul  Brens- 
wick  with  what  seemed  to  me  like  quite  un 
necessary  monotony. 

It  was  the  Bride  who  showed  the  only  real 
tact.  Slipping  her  hand  casually  into  Ann 
Woltor 's  hand  she  started  for  the  Library. 

"Let's  go  see  if  we  can't  find  something 
awfully  exciting  to  read  to-day,"  she  sug 
gested.  Once  across  the  library  threshold 
her  voice  lowered  slightly.  "Really,  Miss 
Woltor,"  she  confided,  "there  are  times  when 
I  think  that  Mr.  Kollins  is  sort  of  crazy." 

"So  many  people  are,"  acquiesced  Ann 
Woltor  without  emotion. 

Caroming  off  to  my  miniature  conservatory 
on  the  pretext  of  watering  my  hyacinths  I 
met  my  Husband  bent  evidently  on  the  same 
errand.  My  Husband's  sudden  interest  in 
potted  plants  was  bewitching.  Even  the  hya 
cinths  were  amused  I  think.  Yet  even  to  pro 
long  the  novelty  of  the  situation  there  was 
certainly  no  time  to  be  lost  about  Kollins. 

"Truly  Jack,"  I  besought  him,  "this  Kollins 
man  has  got  to  be  suppressed." 

"Oh,  not  to-day — surely?"  pleaded  my  Hus 
band.  "Not  on  the  one  engagement  day  of 


116  RAINY   WEEK 

his  life?  Poor  Rollins — when  he's  having  such 
a  thrill?" 

"Well  —  not  to-day  perhaps,"  I  conceded 
with  some  reluctance.  "But  to-morrow  surely! 
We  never  have  been  used  you  know  to  start 
ing  off  the  day  with  Rollins!  And  two  break 
fasts  in  succession?  Well,  really,  it's  almost 
more  than  the  human  heart  can  stand.  Far 
be  it  from  me,"  I  argued,  "to  condone  poor 
Allan  John's  lapse  from  sobriety  or  advocate 
any  plan  whatsoever  for  the  ensnaring  of  the 
very  young  or  the  unwary;  but  all  other 
means  failing,"  I  argued,  "I  should  consider 
it  a  very  great  mercy  to  the  survivors  if 
Rollins  should  wake  to-morrow  with  a  slight 
headache.  No  real  cerebral  symptoms  you 
understand — nothing  really  acute.  Just !" 

"Oh,  stop  your  fooling!"  said  my  Husband. 
"What  I  came  in  here  to  talk  to  you  about  was 
Miss  Woltor." 

"  'Woltor'  or  'Stoltor'?"  I  questioned. 

"Who  said  *  Stoltor'?"  jerked  my  Husband. 

"Oh,  sometimes  you  say  *  Woltor'  and  some 
times  you  say  ' Stoltor'!"  I  confided.  "And 
it's  so  confusing.  Which  it  it — really?" 

"Hanged  if  I  know!"  said  my  Husband. 

"Then  let's  call  her  Ann,"  I  suggested. 


RAINY   WEEK  117 

With  an  impulse  that  was  quite  unwonted 
in  him  my  Husband  stepped  suddenly  forward 
to  my  biggest,  rosiest,  most  perfect  pot  of  pink 
hyacinths,  and  snapping  a  succulent  stem  in 
two  thrust  the  great  gorgeous  bloom  incon 
gruously  into  his  button-hole.  Never  in  fifteen 
years  had  I  seen  my  Husband  with  a  flower  in 
his  button-hole.  Neither,  in  all  that  time,  had 
I  ever  seen  him  flush  across  the  cheek-bones 
just  exactly  the  shade  of  a  rose-pink  Hya 
cinth.  I  could  have  hugged  him!  He  looked 
so  confused. 

"Oh,  I  say — "  he  ventured  quite  abruptly, 
"Miss  Woltor  and  I,  you  know, — we  never 
went  near  the  dentist  yesterday!" 

"So  I  inf erred, "  I  said,  *<from  Rollins 's 
observation.  What  were  you  doing?"  Truly 
I  didn't  mean  to  ask,  but  the  long-suppressed 
wonder  most  certainly  slipped. 

"Why  we  were  just  arguing!"  groaned  my 
Husband.  "Round  and  round  and  round!" 

"Round  —  what?"  I  questioned  —  now  that 
the  slipping  had  started.  "Round  and  round 
the  country?" 

"Country,  no  indeed!"  grinned  my  Husband 
unhappily.  "We  never  left  the  place!" 


118  RAINY   WEEK 

"Never  —  left  the  place?"  I  stammered. 
"Why,  where  in  Creation  were  you?" 

"Why,  first,"  said  my  Husband,  "we  were 
down  at  the  end  of  the  driveway  right  there 
by  the  acacia  trees,  you  know.  She  was 
crying  so  I  didn't  exactly  like  to  strike  the 
state  highway  for  fear  somebody  would  no 
tice  her.  And  then  afterward — when  I  saw 
that  she  really  couldn't  stop " 

"Crying?"  I  puzzled.  "Ann  Woltor — cry 
ing?" 

"And  then  afterward,"  persisted  my  Hus 
band,  "we  went  over  to  the  Bungalow  on 
the  Rock — and  commenced  the  argument  all 
over  again!  Fortunately  there  was  some  tea 
there  and  crackers  and  sardines  and  enough 
firewood.  But  it  was  the  devil  and  all  getting 
over !  We  ran  the  car  into  the  boat-house  and 
took  the  punt!  I  thought  the  surf  would 
smash  us,  but " 

"But  what  was  the  'argument'?"  I  ques 
tioned. 

"Why  about  her  coming  back!"  said  my 
Husband.  "She  was  so  absolutely  determined 
not  to  come  back!  I  never  in  my  life  saw 
such  stubbornness!  And  if  she  once  got  away 
I  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  never  would 


RAINY   WEEK  119 

«ome  back!  That  she'd  drop  out  of  sight  just 
as And  such  crying ! "  he  interrupted  him 
self  with  apparent  irrelevance.  "Everything 
smashed  up  altogether  at  once! — Hadn't  cried 
before,  she  said,  for  eight  years!" 

"Well,  it's  time  she  cried,  the  poor  dear!" 
I  affirmed  sincerely.  "But " 

"But  I  couldn't  bring  her  back  to  the 
house!"  insisted  my  Husband.  "Not  crying 
so,  not  arguing  so!" 

"No,  of  course  not,"  I  agreed. 

"I  kept  thinking  she'd  stop!"  shivered  my 
Husband. 

"Jack,"  I  asked  quite  abruptly,  "Who  is 
Ann  Woltor?" 

"Search  me!"  said  my  Husband,  "I  never 
saw  her  before." 

"You  —  never  saw  her  —  before!"  I  stam 
mered.  "Why — why  you  called  her  by  name! 
— you " 

"I  knew  her  face,"  said  my  Husband.  "I've 
seen  her  picture.  In  London  it  was.  In  Hal 
Ferry's  studio.  Fifteen  years  ago  if  it's  a 
day.  A  huge  charcoal  sketch  all  swoops  and 
smouches. — Just  a  girl  holding  up  a  small 
hand -mirror  to  her  astonished  face.  —  'The 
woman  with  the  broken  tooth'  it  was  called." 


120  RAINY   WEEK 

"Fifteen  years  ago?"  I  gasped.  "'The— 
the  woman  with  the  broken  tooth!' — What  a 
— what  a  name  for  a  picture ! ' ' 

"Yes,  wasn't  it?"  said  my  Husband.  "And 
you'd  have  thought  somehow  that  the  picture 
would  be  funny,  wouldn't  you?  But  it  wasn't! 
It  was  the  grimmest  thing  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life!  Sketched  just  from  memory  too  it  must 
have  been.  No  man  would  have  had  the  cheek 
to  ask  a  woman  to  pose  for  him  like  that, — 
to  reduplicate  just  for  fun  I  mean  that  partic 
ular  expression  of  bewilderment  which  he  had 
by  such  grim  chance  surprised  on  her  unwit 
ting  face.  Such  shock!  Such  astonishment! 
It  wasn't  just  the  astonishment  you  under 
stand  of  Marred  Beauty  worrying  about  a 
dentist.  But  a  look — the  stark,  staring,  chain- 
lightning  sort  of  look  of  a  woman  who, 
back  of  the  broken  tooth,  linked  up  in  some 
way  with  the  accident  of  the  broken  tooth, 
saw  something,  suddenly,  that  God  Himself 
couldn't  repair!  It  was  horrid,  I  tell  you! 
It  haunted  you!  Even  if  you  started  to  hoot 
you  ended  by  arguing!  Arguing  and — won 
dering!  Ferry  finally  got  so  that  .he  wouldn't 
show  it  to  anybody.  People  quizzed  him  so." 

"Yes,  but  Ferry?"  I  questioned. 


RAINY   WEEK  121 

"No,"  said  my  Husband.  "It  was  only  by 
the  merest  chance  that  I  heard  the  name  Ann 
Stoltor  associated  in  any  way  with  the  picture. 
Hal  Ferry  never  told  anything.  Not  a  word. 
But  he  never  exhibited  the  picture,  I  noticed. 
It  was  a  point  of  honor  with  him,  I  suppose. 
If  one  lives  long  enough,  of  course,  one's 
pretty  apt  to  catch  every  friend  'off  guard' 
at  least  once  in  his  facial  expression.  But 
one  doesn't  exhibit  one's  deductions  I  suppose. 
One  mustn't  at  least  make  professional  presen 
tation  of  them." 

"Yes,  but  Ann  Woltor — Stoltor,"  I  puzzled. 
"When  she  tried  to  bolt  sol  Was  it  because 
she  knew  that  you  knew  Hal  Ferry?  When 
you  called  her  'Stoltor'  and  dropped  the  lan 
tern  so  funnily  when  you  first  saw  her,  was 
it  then  that  she  linked  you  up  with  this  some 
thing — whatever  it  is  that  has  hurt  her  so? 
—And  determined  even  then  to  bolt  at  the 
very  first  chance  she  could  get?  But  why  in 
the  world  should  she  want  to  bolt?"  I  puzzled. 
"Certainly  she's  had  to  take  us  on  faith  quite 
as  much  as  we've  taken  her.  And  I? — I  love 
her!" 

In  the  flare  of  the  open  doorway  George 
Keets  loomed  quite  abruptly. 


122  RAINY   WEEK 

.  "Oh,  is  this  where  you  bad  people  are?"  lie 
reproached  us.  "We've  been  searching  the 
house  for  you." 

"Oh,  of  course,  if  you  really  need  us,"  con 
ceded  my  Husband.  "But  even  you,  I  should 
think,  would  know  a  flirtation  when  you  saw 
it  and  have  tact  enough  not  to  butt  in." 

"A  flirtation?"  scoffed  Keets.  "You?  At 
ten  o'clock  in  the  morning?  All  trimmed  up 
like  an  Easter  bonnet  I  And  acting  half  scared 
to  death?  It  looks  a  bit  fishy  to  me,  not  to 
say  mysterious!" 

"All  Husbands  move  in  a  mysterious  way 
their  flirtations  to  perform,"  observed  my 
Husband. 

From  one  pair  of  half-laughing  eyes  to  the 
other  George  Keets  glanced  up  with  the  faint 
est  possible  suggestion  of  a  sigh. 

"Eeally,  you  know,"  said  George  Keets, 
"there  are  times  when  even  /  can  imagine  that 
marriage  might  be  just  a  little  bit  jolly." 

"Oh  never  'jolly',"  grinned  my  Husband, 
"but  there  are  times  I  frankly  admit — when 
it  seems  a  heap  more  serious  than  it  does  at — 
other  times." 

"Less  serious,  you  mean,"  corrected  Keets. 

"More  serious,"  grinned  my  Husband. 


RAINY   WEEK  123 

"Oh,  for  goodness  sake,  let's  stop  talking 
about  us,"  I  protested,  "and  talk  about  the 
weather!" 

"It  was  the  weather  that  I  came  to  talk 
about,"  exclaimed  George  Keets.  "Do  you 
think  it  will  clear  to-day?"  he  questioned. 

For  a  single  mocking  instant  my  Husband's 
glance  sought  mine. 

"No,  not — to-day,  George,"  he  said. 

"U m!"  mused  George  Keets.  "Then 

in  that  case,"  he  brightened  suddenly,  "if 
Mrs.  Delville  is  really  willing  to  put  up  a 
water-proof  lunch — we  think  it  would  be  rather 
good  sport  to  go  back  to  the  cave — and  explore 
a  bit  more  of  the  beach  perhaps — and  bring 
home  Heaven  knows  what  fresh  plunder  from 
the  shipwrecked  trunk." 

"Oh,  how  jolly!"  I  agreed.  "But  will  Mrs. 
Br  ens  wick  go?" 

"Mrs.  Brenswick  isn't  exactly  keen  about 
it,"  admitted  Keets.  "But  she  says  she'll 
go.  And  Brenswick  himself  and  Miss  Woltor 
and  Allan  John — "  It  was  amusing  how 
everybody  called  Allan  John  "Allan  John" 
without  title  or  subterfuge  or  self-conscious 
ness  of  any  kind. 

With  their  arms  across  each  other's  shoul- 


124  RAINY   WEEK 

ders  the  Bride  and  Bridegroom  came  frolick 
ing  by  on  their  way  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"Oh,  Miss  Davies! — Miss  Davies!"  they 
called  up  teasingly.  "Are  you  willing  that 
Allan  John  should  go  to  the  cave  to-day?" 

Smiling  responsively  but  not  one  atom 
teased,  the  May  Girl  jumped  up  from  her 
tableful  of  shells  and  came  out  to  the  edge  of 
the  balustrade  to  consider  the  matter. 

"Allan  John!  Allan  John!"  she  called. 
"Do  you  really  want  to  go?" 

"Why,  yes,"  admitted  Allan  John,  "if 
everybody's  going." 

Behind  the  May  Girl's  looming  height  and 
loveliness  the  little  squat  figure  of  Eollins 
shadowed  suddenly. 

"Miss  Davies  and  I  are  not  going,"  said 
Eollins. 

"Not — going?"    questioned    the    May    Girl. 

"Not  going,"  chuckled  Rollins,  "unless  she 
walks  with  me!"  He  didn't  say  "arm-in 
arm."  He  didn't  need  to.  That  inference 
was  entirely  expressed  by  the  absurdly  trium 
phant  little  glint  in  his  eye. 

I  don't  think  the  May  Girl  intended  to 
laugh.  But  she  did  laugh.  And  all  the  laugh 
in  the  world  seemed  suddenly  "on"  Rollins. 


RAINY  WEEK  125 

"No — really,  People,"  rallied  the  May  Girl, 
"I'd  heaps  rather  stay  here  with  Mr.  Rollins 
and  work  on  these  perfectly  darling  shells. 
One — on  one  side  of  the  table — and  one  on 
the  other." 

"We  are  going  to  have  lunch  up  here — 
in  fact,"  counterchecked  that  rascally  Rollins 
with  a  blandness  that  was  actually  malicious. 
"There  is  a  magnificent  specimen  here  I  no 
tice  of  *  Triton's  Trumpet.'  The  Pacific  Isl 
anders  I  understand  use  it  very  successfully 
for  a  tea-kettle.  And  for  tea-cups.  With 
the  aid  of  one  or  two  'Hare's  Ears'  which  I'm 
almost  sure  I've  seen  in  the  specimen  cab 
inet " 

"  'Hare's  Ears'?"  gasped  the  May  Girl. 

"It's  the  name  of  a  shell,  my  dear, — just 
the  name  of  a  shell,"  explained  Rollins  with 
some  unctuousness.  "Very  comfortable  here 
we  shall  be,  I  am  sure!"  beamed  Rollins. 
"Very  cosy,  very  scientific,  very  ro-romantic, 
if  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  saying  so.  Very — " 

"Oh,  Shucks!"  interrupted  George  Keets 
quite  surprisingly.  "If  Miss  Davies  isn't  go 
ing  there's  no  good  in  anybody  going!" 

"Thank  —  you,"  murmured  Ann  Woltor. 
At  the  astonishingly  new  and  relaxed  timbre 


126  RAINY   WEEK 

of  her  voice  everybody  turned  suddenly  and 
stared  at  her.  It  wasn't  at  all  that  she  spoke 
meltingly,  but  the  fact  of  her  speaking  melted- 
ly,  that  gave  every  one  of  us  that  queer  little 
gasp  of  surprise.  Still  icy  cold,  but  fluid  at 
last,  her  voice  flowed  forth  as  it  were  for  the 
very  first  time  with  some  faint  suggestion  of 
the  real  emotion  in  her  mind.  "Thank  you — 
Mr.  Keets,"  mocked  Ann  Woltor,  "for  your 
enthusiasm  concerning  the  rest  of  us." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  deprecated  George  Keets. 
"You  know  what  I  meant!"  His  face  was 
crimson.  "It — it  was  only  that  Miss  Davies 
was  so  awfully  keen  about  it  all  yesterday! 
Everybody,  you  know,  doesn't  find  it  so  ex 
hilarating." 

"No-0?"  murmured  Ann  Woltor.  In  the 
plushy  black  somberness  of  her  eyes  a  high 
light  glinted  suddenly.  Suppressed  tears  make 
just  that  particular  kind  of  glint.  So  also 
does  suppressed  laughter.  "I  was  out  in  a 
storm — once,"  drawled  Ann  Woltor,  "I  found 
it  very — exhilarating. ' ' 

With  a  flash  of  rather  quizzical  perplexity 
I  saw  my  Husband's  glance  rake  hers. 

Wincing  just  a  little  she  turned  back  to 
me  with  a  certain  gesture  of  appeal. 


RAINY   WEEK  127 

"Cry  one  day  and  laugh  another,  is  it?" 
she  ventured  experimentally. 

"Going  to  the  dentist  isn't  very  jolly — 
you're  quite  right,"  interposed  the  Bride. 

"No,  it  certainly  isn't,"  sympathized  every 
body. 

It  was  perfectly  evident  that  no  one  in  the 
party  except  my  Husband  and  myself  knew 
just  what  had  happened  to  the  dentistry  expe 
dition.  And  Ann  Woltor  wasn't  quite  sure 
even  yet,  I  could  see,  whether  I  knew  or  not. 
The  return  home  the  night  before  had  been 
so  late  —  the  commotion  over  Allan  John's 
whistle  so  immediate — the  breakfast  hour  it 
self  such  a  chaos  of  nonsense  and  foolery. 
Certainly  there  was  no  object  in  prolonging 
her  uncertainty.  I  liked  her  infinitely  too 
much  to  worry  her.  Very  fortunately  also  she 
had  a  ready  eye,  the  one  big  compensating  gift 
that  Fate  bestows  on  all  people  who  have  ever 
been  caught  off  their  guard  even  once  by  a 
real  trouble.  She  never  muffed  any  glance 
I  noticed  that  you  wanted  her  to  catch. 

"Oh,  I  hate  to  think,  .Ann  dear,"  I  smiled, 
"about  there  being  any  tears  yesterday.  But 
if  tears  yesterday  really  should  mean  a  laugh 
to-day " 


128  RAINY   WEEK 

"Oh,  to-day  I"  quickened  Ann  Woltor. 
"Who  can  tell  about  to-day!" 

"Then  you  really  would  like  to  go?"  said 
George  Keets. 

Across  Ann  Woltor 's  shoulders  a  little 
shrug  quivered. 

"Why,  of  course,  I'm  going!"  said  Ann 
Woltor. 

"Good!  Famous!"  rallied  George  Keets. 
"Now  that  makes — how  many  of  us?"  he  reck 
oned.  "Kenmlworth?" 

"No,  let's  not  bother  about  Kennil worth, " 
said  my  Husband. 

"You?"  queried  George  Keets. 

"Yes,  I'm  going,"  acquiesced  my  Husband. 

"And  you,  Mrs.  Delville,  of  course?" 

"No,  I  think  not,"  I  said. 

"Just  the  Brenswicks  then,"  counted  George 
Keets.  "And  Allan  John  and " 

Once  again,  from  the  railing  of  the  upper 
landing,  the  May  Girl's  wistfully  mirthful  face 
peered  down  through  that  amazing  cloud  of 
gold-gray  hair. 

"Allan  John — Allan  John!"  she  called  very 
softly.  "I'd  like  to  have  you  dress  warmly — 
you  know!  And  not  get  just  too  absolutely 
tired  out!  And  be  sure  and  take  the  whistle," 


RAINY   WEEK  129 

she  laughed  very  resolutely,  "and  if  anybody 
isn't  good  to  you — you  just  blow  it  hard — and 
I'll  come." 

As  befitted  the  psychic  necessities  of  a  very 
cranky  Person-With-a-Future,  young  Kennil- 
worth  was  not  disturbed  for  lunch. 

And  Rollins,  it  seemed,  was  grotesquely 
genuine  in  his  desire  to  picnic  up-stairs  with 
the  May  Girl  and  the  shells.  Even  the  May 
Girl  herself  rallied  with  a  fluttering  sort  of 
excitement  to  the  idea.  The  shell  table  for 
tunately  was  quite  large  enough  to  accommo 
date  both  work  and  play.  Eollins  certainly 
was  beside  himself  with  triumph,  and  on  Eol 
lins 's  particular  type  of  countenance  there  is 
no  conceivable  synonym  for  the  word  "tri 
umph"  except  "ghoulish  glee."  Eeally  it  was 
amazing  the  way  the  May  Girl  rallied  her 
gentleness  and  her  patience  and  her  playful 
ness  to  the  absurd  game.  She  opposed  no 
contrary  personality  whatsoever  even  to  Eol 
lins 's  most  vapid  desires.  Unable  as  he  was 
either  to  simulate  or  stimulate  "the  light  that 
never  was  on  land  or  sea,"  it  was  Eollins 's 
very  evident  intention  apparently  to  "blue" 
his  Lady's  eyes  and  "pink"  his  Lady's  cheeks 
by  the  narration  at  least  of  such  sights  as 


130  RAINY   WEEK 

"never  were  on  land  or  sea"!  Flavored  by 
moonlight,  rattling  with  tropical  palms,  green 
as  Arctic  ice,  wild  as  a  loon's  hoot,  science 
and  lies  slipped  alike  from  Rollins 's  lips  with 
a  facility  that  even  I  would  scarcely  have 
suspected  him  of!  Lands  he  had  never  visited 
— adventures  he  had  never  dreamed  of — can 
nibals  not  yet  born — babble — babble — babble 
— babble! 

As  for  the  May  Girl  herself,  as  far  as  I 
could  observe,  not  a  single  sound  emanated 
from  her  the  entire  day,  except  the  occasional 
clank  of  her  hugely  over-sized  "betrothal 
ring"  against  the  Pom  dog's  collar,  or  the 
little  gasping  phrase,  "Oh,  no,  Mr.  Rollins! 
Not  really?"  that  thrilled  now  and  then  from 
her  astonished  lips,  as,  elbows  on  table,  chin 
cupped  in  hand,  she  sat  staring  blue-eyed  and 
bland  at  her — tormentor. 

It  must  have  been  five  o'clock,  almost,  be 
fore  the  beach  party  returned.  Gleaming  like 
a  great  bunch  of  storm-drenched  jonquils,  the 
six  adventurers  loomed  up  cheerfully  in  the 
rain-light.  Once  again  George  Keets  and  the 
Bridegroom  were  dragging  the  Bride  by  her 
hand.  Ann  Woltor  and  my  Husband  followed 
just  behind.  Allan  John  walked  alone. 


RAINY   WEEK  131 

Even  young  Kennilworth  came  out  on  the 
porch  to  hail  them. 

"Hi,  there!"  called  my  Husband. 

"Hi,  there,  yourself!"  retaliated  Kennil 
worth. 

' '  Oh,  we  Ve  had  a  perfectly  wonderful  day ! ' ' 
gasped  the  Bride. 

"Found  the  cave  all  right!"  triumphed 
Keets. 

"Allan  John  found  a — found  an  old-fash 
ioned  hoop-skirt!"  giggled  the  Bride. 

"The  devil  he  did!"  hooted  Rollins. 

"But  we  never  found  the  trunk  at  all!" 
scolded  the  Bridegroom.  "Either  we  were 
way  off  in  our  calculations  or  else  the  sand — " 

In  a  sudden  gusty  flutter  of  white  the  May 
Girl  came  round  the  corner  into  the  full  buffet 
of  the  wind.  It  hadn't  occurred  to  me  before 
just  exactly  how  tired  she  looked.  "Why, 
hello,  everybody — "  she  began, — faltered  an 
instant — crumpled  up  at  the  waist-line — and 
slipped  down  in  a  white  heap  of  unconscious 
ness  to  the  floor. 

It  was  George  Keets  who  reached  her  first, 
and  gathering  her  into  his  long,  strong  arms, 
bore  her  into  the  house.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  his  life  I  think  that  George  Keets  had 


132  RAINY   WEEK 

ever  held  a  woman  in  his  arms.  His  eyes 
hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  it.  And  his 
tightened  lips,  quite  palpably,  didn't  like  it  at 
all.  But  after  all  it  was  those  extraordinarily 
human  shoulders  of  his  that  were  really  doing 
the  carrying? 

Very  fortunately  though  for  all  concerned 
the  whole  scare  was  over  in  a  minute.  En 
sconced  like  a  queen  in  the  deep  pillows  of 
the  big  library  sofa  the  May  Girl  rallied  al 
most  at  once  to  joke  about  the  catastrophe. 
But  she  didn't  want  any  supper,  I  noticed, 
and  dallied  behind  in  her  cushions,  when  the 
supper-hour  came. 

"You  look  like  a  crumpled  rose,"  said  the 
Bride. 

"Like  a  poor  crumpled — white  rose,"  sup 
plemented  Ann  Woltor. 

"Like  a  very  long-stemmed — poor  crumpled 
— white  rose,"  deprecated  the  May  Girl  her 
self. 

Kennilworth  brought  her  a  knife  and  fork, 
but  no  smiles. 

George  Keets  brought  her  several  different 
varieties  of  his  peculiarly  tight-lipped  smile, 
and  all  the  requisite  table-silver  besides. 

Paul  Brenswick  sent  her  the  cherry  from 


RAINY   WEEK  133 

his  cocktail  and  promised  her  the  frosting  from 
his  cake. 

The  Bride  sent  her  love. 

Ann  Woltor  remembered  the  table  napkin. 

Allan  John  watched  the  proceedings  with 
out  comment. 

It  was  Rollins  who  insisted  on  serving  the 
May  Girl 's  supper.  ' 1  It  was  his  right, ' '  he  said. 
More  than  this  he  also  insisted  on  gathering 
up  all  his  own  supper  on  one  quite  inadequate 
plate,  and  trotting  back  to  the  library  to  eat 
it  with  the  May  Girl.  This  also  was  his  right, 
he  said.  Truly  he  looked  very  funny  there 
all  huddled  up  on  a  low  stool  by  the  May 
Girl's  side.  But  at  least  he  showed  sense 
enough  now  not  to  babble  very  much.  And 
once,  at  least,  without  reproof  I  saw  him 
reach  up  to  the  May  Girl's  fork  and  plate  and 
urge  some  particularly  nourishing  morsel  of 
food  into  her  languidly  astonished  mouth. 

It  was  just  as  everybody  drifted  back  from 
the  dining-room  into  the  library  that  the  May 
Girl  wriggled  her  long,  silken,  childish  legs 
out  of  the  steamer-rug  that  encompassed  her, 
struggled  to  her  feet,  wandered  somewhat 
aimlessly  to  the  piano,  fingered  the  keys  for 
a  single  indefinite  moment — and  burst  ecstati 
cally  into  song! 


134  RAINY   WEEK 

None  of  us,  except  my  Husband,  had  heard 
her  sing  before.  None  of  us  indeed,  except  my 
Husband  and  myself,  knew  even  that  she  could 
sing.  The  proof  that  she  could  smote  suddenly 
across  the  ridge  of  one's  spine  like  the  prickle 
of  a  mild  electric  shock. 

My  Husband  was  perfectly  right.  It  was 
a  typical  "Boy  Soprano"  voice,  a  chorister's 
voice — clear  as  flame — passionless  as  syrup. 
As  devoid  of  ritual  as  the  multiplication  table 
it  would  have  made  the  multiplication  table 
fairly  reek  with  incense  and  Easter  lilies! 
Absolutely  lacking  in  everything  that  the  tone 
sharks  call  "color" — yet  it  set  your  mind 
a-haunt  with  all  the  sad  crimson  and  purple 
splendors  of  memorial  windows!  Shadows 
were  back  of  it!  And  sorrows!  And  mys 
teries!  Bridals!  And  deaths!  The  prattle 
alike  of  the  very  young  and  the  very  old! 
Carol!  And  Threnody!  And  a  fearful  Tran 
siency  as  of  youth  itself  passing! 

She  sang — 

"  There  is  a  Green  Hill  far  away 

Without  a  city  wall, 
Where  our  dear  Lord  was  crucified, 
Who  died  to  save  us — all." 


RAINY   WEEK  135 

and  she  sang 

"From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee, 
On  a  stallion  shod  with — fire! 
And  the  winds  are  not  more  fleet 
Than  the  wings  of  my— de — sire!" 

Like  an  Innocent  pouring  kerosene  on  the 
Flame-of-the- World  the  young  voice  soared 
and  swelled  to  that  lovely,  limpid  word  "de 
sire."  (In  the  darkness  I  saw  Paul  Br ens- 
wick's  hand  clutch  suddenly  out  to  his  Mate's. 
In  the  darkness  I  saw  George  Keets  switch 
around  suddenly  and  begin  to  whisper  very 
fast  to  Allan  John.)  And  then  she  sang  a 
little  nonsense  rhyme  about  "Kabbits"  which 
she  explained  rather  shyly  she  had  just  made 
up.  "She  was  very  fond  of  rabbits,"  she  ex 
plained.  "And  of  dogs,  too — if  all  the  truth 
were  to  be  told.  Also  cats." 

"Also — shells!"  sniffed  young  Kennilworth. 

"Yes,  also  shells,"  conceded  the  May  Girl 
without  resentment. 

"Ha!"  sniffed  young  Kennilworth. 

"0 — h,  a — jealous  lover,  this,"  deprecated 
George  Keets.  "Really,  Miss  Davies,"  he 
condoned,  "I'm  afraid  to-morrow  is  going  to 
be  somewhat  of  a  strain  on  you." 


136  RAINY   WEEK 

"To-morrow?"  dimpled  the  May  Girl. 

"Ha! — To-morrow!"  shrugged  young  Ken- 
nilworth. 

"It  was  Hie  rabbits,"  dimpled  the  May 
Girl,  "that  I  was  going  to  tell  you  about  now. 
It's  a  very  moral  song  written  specially  to 
deplore  the — the  thievish  habits  of  the  rab 
bits.  But  I  can't  seem  to  get  around  to  the 
'deploring*  until  the  second  verse.  All  the 
first  verse  is  just  scientific  description." 
Adorably  the  young  voice  lilted  into  the  non 
sense — 

"Oh,  the  habit  of  a  rabbit 
Is  a  fact  that  would  amaze 
From  the  pinkness  of  his  blinkness  and  the  blandness 

of  his  gaze, 
In  a  nose  that's  so  a-twinkle  like  a  merri — perri— 

winkle — 
And—" 

Goodness  me! — That  voice! — The  babyish- 
ness  of  it! — And  the  poignancy!  Should  one 
laugh?  Or  should  one  cry?  Clap  one's  hands? 
Or  bolt  from  the  room?  I  decided  to  bolt 
from  the  room. 

Both  my  Husband  and  myself  thought  it 
would  be  only  right  to  telephone  Dr.  Brawne 
about  the  fainting  spell.  There  was  a  tele- 


RAINY   WEEK  137 

phone  fortunately  in  my  own  room.  And 
there  is  one  thing  at  least  very  compensatory 
about  telephoning  to  doctors.  If  you  once 
succeed  in  finding  them,  there  is  never  an 
undue  lag  in  the  conversation  itself. 

"But  tell  me  only  just  one  thing,"  I  be 
sought  my  Husband,  "so  I  won't  be  talking 
merely  to  a  voice !  This  Dr.  Brawne  of  yours  1 
— Is  he  old  or  young?  Fat  or  thin?  Jolly? 
Or—?" 

"He's  about  fifty,"  said  my  Husband. 
"Fifty-five  perhaps.  Stoutish  rather,  I  think 
you'd  call  him.  And  jolly.  Oh,  I " 

"Ting-a-ling — ling — ling!"  urged  the  tele 
phone-bell. 

Across  a  hundred  miles  of  dripping,  rain- 
bejeweled  wires,  Dr.  Brawne 's  voice  flamed 
up  at  last  with  an  almost  metallic  crispness. 

"Yes?" 

"This  is  Dr.  Brawne?" 

"Yes." 

"This  is  Mrs.  Delville  —  Jack  Delville's 
wife." 

"Yes?" 

"We  just  thought  we'd  call  up  and  report 
the  safe  arrival  of  your  ward  and  tell  you 
how  much  we  are  enjoying  her!" 


138  RAINY   WEEK 

"Yes? — I  trust  she  didn't  turn  up  with  any 
more  lame,  halt,  or  blind  pets  than  you  were 
able  to  handle." 

"Oh  no — no — not  at  all!"  I  hastened  to 
affirm.  (Certainly  it  seemed  no  time  to  ex 
plain  about  poor  Allan  John.) 

"But  what  I  really  called  up  to  say,"  I 
hastened  to  confide,  "is  that  she  fainted  this 
afternoon,  and " 

"Yes?"  crisped  the  clear  incisive  voice 
again. 

"Fainted,"  I  repeated. 

"Yes?" 

"Fainted!"  I  fairly  shouted. 

"Oh,  I  hardly  think  that's  anything,"  mur 
mured  Dr.  Brawne.  His  voice  sounded  sud 
denly  very  far  away  and  muffled  as  though 
he  were  talking  through  a  rather  soggy  soda 
biscuit.  "She  faints  very  easily.  I  don't  find 
anything  the  matter.  It's  just  a  temporary 
instability,  I  think.  She's  grown  so  very  fast." 

"Yes,  she's  tall,"  I  admitted. 

"Everything  else  all  right?"  queried  the 
voice.  The  wires  were  working  better  now. 
"I  don't  need  to  ask  if  she's  having  a  good 
time,"  essayed  the  voice  very  courteously. 
"She's  always  so  essentially  original  in  her 


RAINY   WEEK  139 

ways  of  having  a  good  time — even  with 
strangers — even  when  she's  really  feeling 
rather  shy." 

"Oh,  she's  having  a  good  time,  all  right," 
I  hastened  to  assure  him.  "Three  perfectly 
eligible  young  men  all  competing  for  her 
favor!" 

"Only  three?"  laughed  the  voice.  "You 
surprise  me!" 

"And  speaking  of  originality,"  I  rallied 
instantly  to  that  laugh,  "she  has  invented  the 
most  diverting  game !  She  is  playing  at  being- 
engaged-to-a-different-man — every  day  of  her 
visit.  Oh  very  circumspectly,  you  under 
stand,"  I  hastened  to  affirm.  "Nothing  serious 
at  all!" 

"No,  I  certainly  hope  not,"  mumbled  the 
voice  again  through  some  maddeningly  soggy 
connection.  "Because,  you  see,  I'm  rather 
expecting  to  marry  her  myself  on  the  fifteenth 
of  September  next." 


CHAPTER  W 

SLEEP  is  a  funny  thing!  Really  comical 
I  mean!  A  magician's  trick!  "Now 
you  have  it — and  now  you  don't!" 

Certainly  I  had  very  little  of  it  the  night 
of  Dr.  Brawne's  telephone  conversation.  I 
was  too  surprised. 

Yet  staring  up  through  those  long  wakeful 
hours  into  the  jetty  black  heights  of  my  bed 
room  ceiling  it  didn't  seem  to  be  so  much  the 
conversation  itself  as  the  perfectly  irrelevant 
events  succeeding  that  conversation  that  kept 
hurtling  back  so  into  my  visual  consciousness 
— The  blueness  of  the  May  Girl's  eyes!  The 
brightness  of  her  hair! — Rollins 's  necktie! 
The  perfectly  wanton  hideousness  of  Rollins 's 
necktie! — The  bang — bang — bang  of  a  storm- 
tortured  shutter  way  off  in  the  ell  somewhere. 

Step  by  step,  item  by  item,  each  detail  of 
events  reprinted  itself  on  my  mind.  Fum 
bling  back  from  the  shadowy  telephone-stand 
into  the  brightly  lighted  upper  hall  with  the 

140 


RAINY   WEEK  14! 

single  desire  to  find  my  Husband  and  con 
fide  to  him  as  expeditiously  as  possible  this 
news  which  had  so  amazed  me,  I  had  stumbled 
instead  upon  the  May  Girl  herself,  climbing 
somewhat  listlessly  up  the  stairs  toward  bed, 
Eollins  was  close  behind  her  carrying  her  book 
and  a  filmy  sky-blue  scarf.  George  Keets  fol 
lowed  with  a  pitcher  of  water. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  'Good  Night,'  dear,  is  it?"  I 
questioned. 

1  'Yes,"  said  the  May  Girl.  "I'm— pretty 
tired."  She  certainly  looked  it. 

Rollins  quite  evidently  was  in  despair.  He 
was  not  to  accomplish  his  'kiss'  after  all,  it 
would  seem.  All  the  long  day,  I  judged,  he 
had  been  whipping  up  his  cheeky  courage 
to  meet  some  magic  opportunity  of  the  eve 
ning.  And  now,  it  appeared,  there  wasn't 
going  to  be  any  evening!  Even  the  last  pre 
cious  moment  indeed  was  to  be  ruined  by 
George  Ketts's  perfidious  intrusion! 

It  was  the  Bride's  voice  though  that  rang 
down  the  actual  curtain  on  Eollins 's  "Perfect 
Day." 

"Oh,  Miss  Davies! — Miss  Davies!"  called 
the  Bride.  "You  mustn't  forget  to  return 
your  ring,  you  know!" 


142  RAINY   WEEK 

"Why,  no,  so  I  mustn't/'  rallied  the  May 
Girl. 

Twice  I  heard  Eollins  swallow  very  hard. 
Any  antique  was  sacred  to  him,  but  a  family 
antique.  Oh,  ye  gods! 

"K — K — Keep  the  ring!"  stammered  Eol- 
lins.  It  was  the  nearest  point  to  real  heroism 
surely  that  funny  little  Eollins  would  ever 
attain. 

"Oh,  no,  indeed,"  protested  the  May  Girl. 
Very  definitely  she  snapped  the  silken  threads, 
removed  the  clumsy  bauble  from  her  finger, 
and  handed  it  back  to  Eollins.  "But — but 
it's  a  beautiful  ring!"  she  hastened  chival 
rously  to  assure  him.  "I'll — I'll  keep  the 
orchids!"  she  assented  with  real  dimples. 

On  Eollins 's  sweating  face  the  symptoms  of 
acute  collapse  showed  suddenly.  With  a  glare 
that  would  have  annihilated  a  less  robust  soul 
than  George  Keets's  he  turned  and  laid  bare 
his  horrid  secret  to  an  unfeeling  Public. 

"I'd  rather  you  kept  the  ring,"  sweated 
Eollins.  "The —  The  orchids  have  got  to  go 
back! — I  only  hired  the  orchids! — That  is  I — 
I  bribed  the  gardener.  They've  got  to  be  back 
by  nine  o'clock  to-night.  For  some  sort  of  a — 
a  party." 


RAINY   WEEK  143 

"To-night?"  I  gasped.  "In  all  this  storm f 
Why,  what  if  the  May  Girl  had  refused  to — 
to ?" 

In  Rollins 's  small,  blinking  eyes,  Romance 
and  Thrift  battled  together  in  terrible  combat. 

"I  gotta  go  back,"  mumbled  Rollins.  "He's 
got  my  watch!" 

"Oh,  for  goodness  sake  you  mustn't  risk 
losing  your  watch!"  laughed  the  May  Girl. 

George  Keets  didn't  laugh.  He  hooted!  I 
had  never  heard  him  hoot  before,  and  ribald  as 
the  sound  seemed  emanating  from  his  dis 
tinctly  austere  lips,  the  mechanical  construc 
tion  of  that  hoot  was  in  some  way  strangely 
becoming  to  him. 

The  May  Girl  quite  frankly  though  was 
afraid  he  had  hurt  Rollins 's  feelings.  Return 
ing  swiftly  from  her  bedroom  with  the  lovely 
exotics  bunched  cautiously  in  one  hand  she 
turned  an  extravagantly  tender  smile  on 
Rollins 's  unhappy  face. 

"Just —  Just  one  of  them,"  she  apologized, 
"is  crushed  a  little.  I  know  you  told  me  to 
be  awfully  careful  of  them.  I'm  very  sorry. 
But  truly,"  she  smiled,  "it's  been  perfectly 
wonderful — just  to  have  them  for  a  day! 
Thank  you! — Thank  you  a  whole  lot,  I  meant 


144  RAINY   WEEK 

And  for  the  day  itself — it's — it's  been  very — 
pleasant,"  she  lied  gallantly. 

Snatching  the  orchids  almost  roughly  from 
her  hand  Rollins  gave  another  glare  at  George 
Keets  and  started  for  his  own  room.  With 
Iris  fingers  on  the  door-handle  he  turned  and 
glared  back  with  particular  ferocity  at  the 
May  Girl  herself.  "Pleasant?"  he  scoffed. 
"Pleasant?"  And  crossing  the  threshold  he 
slammed  the  door  hard  behind  him. 

Never  have  I  seen  anything  more  boorish ! 

"Why —  Why,  how  tired  he  must  be,"  ex 
claimed  the  May  Girl. 

"Tired?"  hooted  George  Keets.  He  was 
still  hooting  when  he  joined  the  Bride  and 
Bridegroom  in  the  library. 

It  must  have  been  fifteen  minutes  later  that, 
returning  from  an  investigation  of  the  banging 
blind,  I  ran  into  Rollins  stealing  surreptitious 
ly  to  the  May  Girl's  door.  Quite  unconscious 
ly,  doubtless,  but  with  most  rapacious  effect, 
his  sparse  hair  was  rumpled  in  innumerable 
directions,  and  the  stealthy  boy-pirate  hunch 
to  his  shoulders  added  the  last  touch  of 
melodrama  to  the  scene.  Rollins,  as  a  gay 
Lothario,  was  certainly  a  new  idea.  I  could 
have  screamed  with  joy.  But  while  I  debated 


RAINY   WEEK  145 

the  ethics  of  screaming  for  joy  only,  the  May 
Girl  herself,  as  though  in  reply  to  his  crafty 
knock,  opened  her  door  and  stared  frankly 
down  at  him  with  a  funny,  flushed  sort  of 
astonishment.  She  was  in  her  great  boyish 
blanket-wrapper,  with  her  gauzy  gold  hair 
wafting  like  a  bright  breeze  across  her  neck 
and  shoulders,  and  the  radiance  of  her  I  think 
would  have  startled  any  man.  But  it  knocked 
the  breath  out  of  Rollins. 

"  P-p-pleasant ! "  gasped  Rollins,  quite  ab 
ruptly.  "It  was  a — a  Miracle!" 

11 — Miracle?"  puzzled  the  May  Girl. 

"Wall-papers!"  babbled  Rollins.  "Suppose 
it  had  been  true?"  he  besought  her.  "To-day, 
I  mean?  Our  betrothal?"  With  total  un 
expectedness  he  began  to  flutter  a  handfull 
of  wall-paper  samples  under  the  May  Girl's 
astonished  nose.  "I've  got  a  little  flat  you 
know  in  town,"  babbled  Rollins.  "Just  one 
room  and  bath.  It's  pretty  dingy.  But  for  a 
long  time  now  I've  been  planning  to  have  it 
all  repapered.  And  if  you'd  choose  the  wall 
paper  for  it — it  would  be  pleasant  to  think  of 
during — during  the  years!"  babbled  Rollins. 

"What?"  puzzled  the  May  Girl.  Then  quite- 
suddenly  she  reached  out  and  took  the  papers 


146  RAINY   WEEK 

from  Kollins's  hand  and  bent  her  lovely  head 
over  them  in  perfectly  solemn  contemplation. 
"Why — why  the  pretty  gray  one  with  the 
white  gulls  and  the  flash  of  blue!"  she  de 
cided  almost  at  once,  looked  up  for  an  instant, 
smiled  straight  into  Bollins's  fatuous  eyes, 
and  was  gone  again  behind  the  impregnable 
fastness  of  her  closed  door,  leaving  Kollins 
gasping  like  a  fool,  his  shoulders  drooping, 
his  limp  hands  clutching  the  sheet  of  white 
gulls  with  all  the  absurd  manner  of  an  ama 
teur  prima  donna  just  on  the  verge  of  burst 
ing  into  song! 

And  all  of  a  sudden  starting  to  laugh  I 
found  myself  crying  instead.  It  was  the  ex 
pression  in  Rollins  9a  eyes,  I  think.  The  one 
"  off-guard "  expression  perhaps  of  Rollins 's 
life!  A  scorching  flame  of  self -revelation,  as 
it  were,  that  consumed  even  as  it  illuminated, 
leaving  only  gray  ashes  and  perplexity.  Not 
just  the  look  it  was  of  a  Little-Man-Almost- 
Old-  who-had-Never-Had-a-Chance-to-Play.  But 
the  look  of  a  Little  -  Man  -  Almost  -  Old  who 
sensed  suddenly  for  the  first  time  that  he 
never  would  have  a  chance  to  play !  That  Fate 
denying  him  the  glint  of  wealth,  the  flash  of 
romance,  the  scar  even  of  tragedy,  had 


RAINY   WEEK  147 

stamped  him  merely  with  the  indelible  sign  of 
a  Per  son- Who  wasn't — Meant  to-be-Liked! 

Truly  I  was  very  glad  to  steal  back  into  my 
dark  room  for  a  moment  before  trotting  down 
stairs  again  to  join  all  those  others  who  were 
essentially  intended  for  liking  and  loving,  so 
eminently  fitted,  whether  they  refused  or  ac 
cepted  it,  for  the  full  moral  gamut  of  human 
experience. 

On  my  way  down  it  was  only  human,  of 
course,  to  stop  in  the  May  Girl's  room. 
Rollins  or  no  Kollins  it  was  the  May  Girl's 
problem  that  seemed  to  me  the  only  really 
maddening  one  of  the  moment.  What  in 
creation  was  life  planning  to  proffer  the  May 
Girl? — Dr.  Brawne? — Dr.  Brawne? — It  wasn't 
just  a  question  of  Dr.  Brawne !  But  a  question 
of  the  May  Girl  herself? 

She  was  still  in  her  blanket-wrapper  when  I 
entered  the  room,  but  had  hopped  into  bed, 
and  sat  bolt-up-right  rocking  vaguely,  with 
her  knees  gathered  to  her  chin  in  the  circle  of 
her  slender  arms. 

"What  seems  to  be  the  matter?"  I  ques 
tioned. 

"That's  what  I  don't  know,"  she  dimpled 


148  RAINY   WEEK 

-almost  instantly.  "But  I  seem  to  be  worrying 
about — something. '  ' 

"  Worrying  ?"  I  puzzled. 

"Well, — maybe  it's  about  the  Pom  dog," 
suggested  the  May  Girl  helpfully.  "His  mouth 
is  so  very — very  tiny.  Do  you  think  he  had 
enough  supper?" 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  he  had  enough  supper,"  I 
hastened  to  reassure  her. 

Very  reflectively  she  narrowed  her  eyes  to 
review  the  further  field  of  her  possible 
worries. 

"That  cat — that  your  Husband  said  he  sent 
away  just  before  I  came  for  fear  I'd  bring 
some  —  some  contradictory  animals  —  are  you 
quite  sure  that  he's  got  a  good  home?"  she 
worried. 

"Oh,  the  best  in  the  world,"  I  said.  "A 
Maternity  Hospital!" 

"Kittens?"  brightened  the  May  Girl  for  a 
single  instant  only.  "Oh,  you  really  mean 
kittens?  Then  surely  there's  nothing  to  worry 
about  in  that  direction!" 

"Nothing  but — kittens,"  I  conceded. 

"Then  it  must  be  Allan  John,"  said  the  May 
Girl.  "His  feet!  Of  course,  I  can't  exactly 
help  feeling  pretty  responsible  for  Allan  John. 


RAINY  WEEK  149 

Are  you  sure  —  are  you  quite  sure,  I  mean, 
that  he  hasn't  been  sitting  round  with  wet  feet 
all  the  evening?  He  isn't  exactly  the  croupy 
type,  of  course,  but — "  "With  a  sudden  irrele 
vant  gesture  she  unclasped  her  knees,  and  shot 
her  feet  straight  out  in  front  of  her.  "What 
ever  in  the  world,"  she  cried  out,  "am  I  going 
,to  do  with  Allan  John  when  it  comes  time  to 
go  home!  Now  gold-fish,"  she  reflected,  "in  a 
real  emergency, — can  always  be  tucked  away 
in  the  bath-tub.  And  once  when  I  brought 
home  a  Japanese  baby,"  she  giggled  in  spite 
of  herself,  "they  made  me  keep  it  in  my  own 
room.  But " 

"But  I've  got  a  worry  of  my  own,"  I  inter 
rupted.  "It's  about  your  fainting.  It  scared 
me  dreadfully.  I've  just  been  telephoning  to 
Dr.  Brawne  about  it." 

Across  the  May  Girl's  supple  body  a  curious 
tightness  settled  suddenly. 

"You— told— Dr.  Brawne— that  I— fainted?" 
she  said.  "You — you  oughtn't  to  have  done 
that!"  It  was  only  too  evident  that  she  was 
displeased. 

"But  we  were  worried,"  I  repeated.  "We 
had  to  tell  him.  We  didn't  like  to  take  the 
responsibility." 


150  RAINY   WEEK 

With  her  childish  hands  spread  flatly  as  a 
brace  on  either  side  of  her  she  seemed  to  re 
treat  for  a  moment  into  the  gold  veil  of  her 
hair.  Then  very  resolutely  her  face  came  peer 
ing  out  again. 

"And  just  what  did  Dr.  Brawne — tell  you?" 
asked  the  May  Girl. 

"Why  something  very  romantic,"  I  ad 
mitted.  "The  somewhat  astonishing  news,  in 
fact,  that  you  were  engaged — to  him." 

"Oh,  but  you  know,  I'm  not!"  protested  the 
May  Girl  with  unmistakable  emphasis.  "No — 
No!" 

"And  that  he  was  hoping  to  be  married  next 
September.  On  the  15th  to  be  perfectly  exact," 
I  confided. 

"Well,  very  likely  I  shall  marry  him,"  ad 
mitted  the  May  Girl  somewhat  bafflingly.  "But 
I'm  not  engaged  to  him  now!  Oh,  I'm  much 
too  young  to  be  engaged  to  him  now!  Why, 
even  my  grandmother  thinks  I'm  much  too 
young  to  be  engaged  to  him  now! — Why,  he's 
most  fifty  years  old!"  she  affirmed  with  widely 
dilating  eyes.  " — And  II — I've  scarcely  been 
off  my  grandmother's  place,  you  know,  until 
this  last  winter!  But  if  I'm  grown-up  enough 
by  September,  they  say — you  see  I'll  be  eigh- 


RAINY   WEEK  151 

teen  and  a  half  by  September,"  she  explained 
painstakingly,  "so  that's  why  I  wanted  to  get 
engaged  as  much  as  I  could  this  week!"  she 
interrupted  herself  with  quite  merciless  irrele 
vance.  "If  I've  got  to  be  married  in  Sep 
tember  —  without  ever  having  been  engaged  or 
courted  at  all  —  I  just  thought  I'd  better  go 
to  work  and  pick  up  what  experience  I  could — 
on  my  own  hook!" 

"Dr. — Dr.  Brawne  will,  of  course,  make  you 
a  very  distinguished  husband,"  I  stammered, 
"but  are  you  sure  you  love  him?" 

"I  love  everybody!"  dimpled  the  May  Girl. 

"Yes,  dogs,  of  course,"  I  conceded,  "and 
rabbits — and  horses  and " 

"And  kittens,"  supplemented  the  May  Girl. 

"Your  mother  is  —  not  living?"  I  asked 
rather  abruptly. 

"My  father  is  dead,"  said  the  May  Girl. 
"But  my  mother  is  in  Egypt."  Her  lovely 
face  was  suddenly  all  excitement.  "My  mother 
ran  away!" 

"Oh!  An  elopement,  you  mean?"  I  laughed. 
"Kan  away  with  your  father.  Youngsters 
used  to  do  romantic  things  like  that." 

"Kan  away  from  my  father,"  said  the  May 
Girl.  "And  from  me.  It  was  when  I  was  four 


152  RAINY   WEEK 

years  old.  None  of  us  have  ever  seen  her 
since.  It  was  with  one  of  Dr.  Brawne 's  friends 
that  she  ran  away.  That's  one  reason,  I  think, 
why  Dr.  Brawne  has  always  felt  so  sort  of 
responsible  for  me." 

"Oh,  dear — oh,  dear,  this  is  very  sad,"  I 
winced. 

"N-o,"  said  the  May  Girl  perfectly  simply. 
" Maybe  it  was  bad — but  I'm  almost  sure  it's 
never  been  sad.  Dr.  Brawne  hears  from  her 
sometimes.  Mother's  always  been  very  happy, 
I  think.  But  everybody  somehow  seems  to  be 
in  an  awful  hurry  to  get  me  settled." 

"Why?"  I  asked  quite  starkly,  and  could 
have  bitten  my  tongue  out  for  my  imperti 
nence. 

"Why — because  I'm  so  tall,  I  suppose," 
said  the  May  Girl.  "And  not  so  very  spe 
cially  bright.  Oh,  not  nearly  as  bright  as  I 
am  tall!"  she  hastened  to  assure  me  with  her 
pretty  nose  all  crinkled  up  for  the  sheer 
emphasis  of  her  regret.  "Life's  rather  hard, 
you  know,  on  tall  women,"  she  confided  sagely. 
"Always  trying  to  take  a  tuck  in  them  some 
where!  Mother  was  tall,"  she  observed;  "and 
Father,  they  say,  was  always  and  forever 
trying  to  make  her  look  smaller  —  especially 


RAINY   WEEK  153 

in  public!  Pulling  her  opinions  out  from 
under  her!  Belittling  all  her  great,  lovely 
fancies  and  ideas!  Not  that  he  really  meant 
to  be  hateful,  I  suppose.  But  he  just  couldn't 
help  it.  It  was  just  the  natural  male-instinct 
I  guess  of  wanting  to  be  the  everythinger — 
himself!" 

"What  do — you  know  of  'the  natural  male 
instinct "?"  I  laughed  out  in  spite  of  myself. 

"Oh— lots,"  smiled  the  May  Girl.  "I  have 
an  uncle.  And  my  grandmother  always  keeps 
two  hired  men.  And  for  almost  six  months 
now  I've  been  at  the  Art  School.  And  there 
are  twenty-seven  boys  at  the  Art  School.  Why 
there's  Jerry  and  Paul  and  Richard  and — 
and " 

"Yes,  but  your  father  and  mother?"  I  pon 
dered.  "Just  how ?" 

"Oh,  it  was  when  they  were  walking  down 
town  one  day  past  a  great  big  mirror,"  ex 
plained  the  May  Girl  brightly.  "And  Mother 
saw  that  she  was  getting  round-shouldered 
trying  to  keep  down  to  Father's  level — it  was 
then  that  she  ran  away!  It  was  then  that  she 
began  to  run  away  I  mean!  To  run  away  in 
her  mind!  I  heard  grandmother  and  Dr. 
Brawne  talking  about  it  only  last  summer. 


154  RAINY   WEEK 

But  I?"  she  affirmed  with  some  pride,  "oh, 
I've  known  about  being  tall  ever  since  I  first 
had  starch  enough  in  my  knees  to  stand  up! 
While  I  stayed  in  my  crib  I  don't  suppose  I 
noticed  it  specially.  But  just  as  soon  as  I  was 
big  enough  to  go  to  school.  Why,  even  at  the 
very  first,"  she  glowed,  "when  every  other 
child  in  the  room  had  failed  without  the 
slightest  reproach  some  perfectly  idiotic 
visitor  would  always  pipe  up  and  say,  'Now 
ask  that — tall  child  there!  The  one  with  the 
yellow  hair ! '  And  everyone  would  be  as  vexed 
as  possible  because  I  failed,  too!  It  isn't  my 
head,  you  know  that's  tall,"  protested  the 
May  Girl  with  some  feeling,  "it's  just  my 
neck  and  legs ! ' ' 

"You  certainly  are  entrancingly  graceful," 
I  smiled.  How  anybody  as  inexpressibly  love 
ly  as  the  May  Girl  could  be  so  oblivious  of  the 
fact  was  astonishing ! 

But  neither  smile  nor  compliment  seemed  to 
allay  to  the  slightest  degree  the  turmoil  that 
was  surging  in  the  youngster's  mind. 

"Why,  even  at  the  Art  School,"  she  pro 
tested,  "it's  just  as  bad!  Especially  with  the 
boys!  Being  so  tall — and  with  yellow  hair 
besides — you  just  can't  possibly  be  as  impor- 


RAINY  WEEK  155 

tant  as  you  are  conspicuous!  And  yet  every 
individual  boy  seems  obliged  to  find  out  for 
himself  just  exactly  how  important  you  are! 
But  no  matter  what  he  finds,"  she  shrugged 
with  a  gesture  of  ultimate  despair,  "it  always 
ends  by  everybody  getting  mad!" 

"Mad?"  I  questioned. 

"Yes  —  very  mad,"  said  the  May  Girl. 
"Either  he's  mad  because  he  finds  you're  not 
nearly  as  nice  as  you  are  conspicuous,  or  else, 
liking  you  most  to  death,  he  simply  can't  stand 
it  that  anyone  as  nice  as  he  thinks  you  are  is 
able  to  outplay  him  at  tennis  or — that's  why 
I  like  animals  best — and  hurt  things!"  she 
interrupted  herself  with  characteristic  im 
petuosity.  "Animals  and  hurt  things  don't 
care  how  rangy  your  arms  are  as  long  as 
they're  loving!  Why  if  you  were  as  tall  as  a 
tree,"  she  argued,  "little  deserted  birds  in 
nests  would  simply  be  glad  that  you  could 
reach  them  that  much  sooner!  But  men? 
Why,  even  your  nice  Mr.  Keets,"  she  cried; 
"even  your  nice  Mr.  Keets,  with  his  fussy  old 
Archaeology,  couldn't  even  play  at  being  en 
gaged  without  talking  down — down — down  at 
me!  Tall  as  he  is,  too!  And  funny  little  old 
Mr.  Kollins,"  she  flushed.  "Little — little — 


156  RAINY   WEEK 

old  Mr.  Kollins — Mr.  Kollins  really  liked  me, 
I  think,  but  he — he'd  torture  me  if  he  thought 
it  would  make  him  feel  any  burlier ! ' ' 

"And  Claude  Kennilworth, "  I  questioned. 

The  shiver  across  the  May  Girl's  shoulders 
looked  suddenly  more  like  a  thrill  than  a 
distaste. 

"Oh,  Claude  Kennilworth,"  she  acknowl 
edged  quite  ingenuously.  "He's  begun  al 
ready  to  try  to  'put  me  in  my  place'!  Alto 
gether  too  independent  is  what  he  thinks  I 
am.  But  what  he  really  means  is  *  altogether 
too  tall'!"  Once  again  the  little  shiver  flashed 
across  her  shoulders.  "He's  so — so  awfully 
temperamental!"  she  quickened.  "Goodness 
knows  what  fireworks  he'll  introduce  tomor 
row!  I  can  hardly  wait!" 

"Is— is  Dr.  Brawne— tall?"  I  asked  a  bit 
abruptly. 

"N— o,"  admitted  the  May  Girl.  "He's 
quite  short!  But — his  years  are  so  tall!" 
she  cried  out  triumphantly.  "He's  so  tall  in 
his  attainments!  IVe  thought  it  all  out— oh 
very — very  carefully,"  she  attested.  "And  if 
I've  got  to  be  married  in  order  to  have  some 
one  to  look  out  for  me  I'm  almost  perfectly 
positive  that  Dr.  Brawne  will  be  quite  too 


RAINY   WEEK  157 

amused  at  having  so  young  a  wife  to  bully  me 
very  much  about  anything  that  goes  with  the 
youngness!" 

"Oh— h,"  I  said. 

"Yes, — exactly,"  mused  the  May  Girl. 

With  a  heart  and  an  apprehension  just  about 
as  gray  and  as  heavy  as  lead  I  rose  and  started 
for  the  door. 

"But,  May  Girl?"  I  besought  her  in  a  sin 
gle  almost  hysterical  desire  to  rouse  her  from 
her  innocence  and  her  ignorance.  "Among  all 
this  great  array  of  men  and  boys  that  you 
know — the  uncle — yes,  even  the  hired  men," 
I  laughed,  "and  all  those  blue-smocked  boys  at 
the  Art  School — whom  do  you  really  like  the 
best?" 

So  far  her  eyes  journeyed  off  into  the  dis 
tance  and  back  again  I  thought  that  she  had 
not  heard  me.  Then  quite  abruptly  she  an 
swered  me.  And  her  voice  was  all  boy- 
chorister  again. 

"The  best? — why,  Allan  John!"  she  said. 

Taken  all  in  all  there  were  several  things 
said  and  done  that  evening  that  would  have 
kept  any  normal  hostess  awake,  I  think. 

The  third  morning  dawned  even  rainier  than 
the  second !  Infinitely  rainier  than  the  first ! 


158  RAINY   WEEK 

It  gave  everybody's  coming-down-stairs  ex 
pression  a  curiously  comical  twist  as  though 
Dame  Nature  herself  had  been  caught  off- 
guard  somehow  in  a  moment  of  dishabille  that 
though  inexpressibly  funny,  couldn't  exactly 
be  referred  to  —  not  among  mere  casual  ac 
quaintances — not  so  early  in  the  morning,  any 
way! 

Yet  even  though  everybody  rushed  at  once 
to  the  fireplace  instead  of  to  the  breakfast- 
table  nobody  held  us  responsible  lor  the 
weather.  Everyone  in  fact  seemed  to  make 
rather  an  extra  effort  to  assure  us  that  he  or 
she — as  the  case  might  be,  most  distinctly  did 
not  hold  us  responsible. 

Paul  Brenswick  indeed  grew  almost  eloquent 
telling  us  about  an  accident  to  the  weather 
which  he  himself  had  witnessed  in  a  climate 
as  supposedly  well-regulated  as  the  climate  of 
South  Eastern  Somewhere  was  supposed  to 
be!  Ann  Woltor  raked  her  cheerier  memories 
for  the  story  of  a  four  days'  rain-storm  which 
she  had  experienced  once  in  a  very  trying 
visit  to  her  great  aunt  somebody-or-other  on 
some  peculiarly  stormbound  section  of  the 
Welsh  coast.  George  Keet's  chivalrous  anx 
iety  to  set  us  at  our  ease  was  truly  heroic. 


RAINY   WEEK  159 

He  even  improvised  a  parody  about  it: 
"Bain,"  observed  George  Keets,  "makes 
strange  umbrella-mates!"  A  leak  had  de 
veloped  during  the  night  it  seemed  in  the 
ceiling  directly  over  his  bed — and  George,  the 
finicky,  the  fastidious,  the  silk-pa  jamered — 
had  been  obliged  to  crawl  out  and  seek  shelter 
with  Eollins  and  his  flannel  night-cap  in  the 
next  room.  And  Rollins,  it  appeared,  had  not 
proved  a  particularly  genial  host. 

"By  the  way,  where  is  Mr.  Rollins  this 
morning?"  questioned  the  Bride  from  her 
frowning  survey  of  the  storm-swept  beach. 

"Mr.  Rollins,"  confided  my  Husband,  "has 
a  slight  headache  this  morning." 

"Why,  that's  too  bad,"  sympathized  Ann 
Woltor. 

"No,  it  isn't  a  bad  one  at  all,"  contradicted 
my  Husband.  "Just  the  very  mildest  one 
possible — under  the  circumstances.  It  was 
really  very  late  when  he  got  in  again  last 
night.  And  very  wet."  From  nnder  his 
casually  lowered  eyes  a  single  glance  of  greet 
ing  shot  out  at  me. 

"Now,  there  you  are  again!"  cried  George 
Keets.  "Flirting!  You  married  people! 
Something  that  anyone  else  would  turn  out 


160  RAINY   WEEK 

as  mere  information, — 'The  Ice  Man  has  just 
left  two  chunks  of  ice!'  or  'Mr.  Kollins  has  a 
headache'! — you  go  and  load  up  with  some 
mysterious  and  unfathomable  significance! 
Glances  pass!  Your  wife  flushes!"  "Myster 
ious?"  shrugged  my  Husband.  "Unfathom 
able?  Why  it's  clear  as  crystal.  The  madam 
says,  'Let  there  be  a  headache — and  there  is  a 
headache!" 

As  Allan  John  joined  the  group  at  the  fire 
place  everybody  began  talking  weather  again. 
From  the  chuckle  of  the  birch-logs  to  the 
splash  on  the  window-pane  the  little  groups 
shifted  and  changed.  Everybody  seemed  to 
be  waiting  for  something.  On  the  neglected 
breakfast  table  even  the  gay  upstanding  hemi 
spheres  of  grapefruit  rolled  over  on  their  beds 
of  ice  to  take  another  nap. 

In  a  great  flutter  of  white  and  laughter  the 
May  Girl  herself  came  prancing  over  the 
threshold.  It  wasn't  just  the  fact  of  being  in 
white  that  made  her  look  so  astonishingly 
festal;  she  was  almost  always  in  white.  Not 
yet  the  fact  of  laughter.  Taken  all  in  all  I 
think  she  was  the  most  radiantly  laughing 
youngster  that  I  have  ever  known.  But  most 
astonishingly  festal  she  certainly  looked,  nev- 


RAINY   WEEK  161 

ertheless.  Maybe  it  was  the  specially  new 
and  chic  little  twist  which  she  had  given  her 
hair.  Maybe  it  was  the  absurdly  coquettish 
dab  of  black  court-plaster  which  she  had 
affixed  to  one  dimply  cheek. 

"Oh,  if  I'm  going  to  be  engaged  to-day  to 
a  real  artist,"  she  laughed,  "I've  certainly 
got  to  take  some  extra  pains  with  my  per 
sonal  appearance.  Why,  IVe  hardly  slept  all 
night, "  she  confided  ingenuously,  "I  was  so 
excited!" 

"Yes,  won't  it  be  interesting,"  whispered 
the  Bride  to  George  Keets,  "to  see  what  Mr. 
Kennilworth  will  really  do?  He's  so  awfully 
temperamental !  And  so  —  so  inexcusably 
beautiful.  Whatever  he  does  is  pretty  sure  to 
be  interesting.  Now  up-stairs — all  day  yester 
day — wouldn't  it ?" 

"Yes,  wouldn't  it  be  interesting,"  glowed 
Ann  Woltor  quite  unexpectedly,  "if  he'd  made 
her  something  really  wonderful?  Something 
that  would  last,  I  mean,  after  the  game  was 
over?  Even  just  a  toy,  something  that  would 
outlast  Time  itself.  Something  that  even  when 
she  was  old  she  could  point  to  and  say,  *  Claude 
Kennilworth  made  that  for  me  when — we  were 
young.'  " 


162  RAINY   WEEK 

"Why,  Ann  Woltor!"  I  stammered.  "Do 
you  feel  that  way  about  him?  Does — does  he 
make  you  feel  that  way,  too!" 

"I  think  —  he  would  make  —  anyone  feel 
that  way — too,"  intercepted  Allan  John  quite 
amazingly.  In  three  days  surely  it  was  the 
only  voluntary  statement  he  had  made,  and 
everybody  turned  suddenly  to  stare  at  him. 
But  it  was  only  too  evident  from  the  persistent 
haggardness  of  his  expression  that  he  had  no 
slightest  intention  in  the  world  of  pursuing 
his  unexpected  volubility. 

"And  it  isn't  just  his  good  looks  either!" 
resumed  the  Bride  as  soon  as  she  had  recov 
ered  from  her  own  astonishment  at  the  inter 
polation. 

"Oh,  something,  very  different,"  mused 
Ann  Woltor.  "The  queer  little  sense  he  gives 
you  of — of  wires  humming !  Whether  you  like 
him  or  not  that  queer  little  sense  of  '  wires 
humming*  that  all  really  creative  people  give 
you!  As  though — as  though — they  were  being 
rather  specially  re-charged  all  the  time  from 
the  Main  Battery!" 

"The  'Main  Battery/  "  puzzled  the  Bride 
groom,  "being f " 


RAINY   WEEK  163- 

"Why — God,  of  course!"  said  the  Bride 
with  a  vague  sort  of  surprise. 

"When  women  talk  mechanics  and  religion 
in  the  same  breath,"  laughed  the  Bridegroom, 
"it  certainly " 

"I  was  talking  neither  mechanics  nor  relig 
ion,"  affirmed  the  Bride,  with  the  faintest  pos 
sible  tinge  of  asperity. 

"Oh,  of  course,  anyone  can  see,"  admitted 
the  Bridegroom,  "that  Kennilworth  is  a  clever 
chap." 

"Clever  as  the  deuce!"  acquiesced  George 
Keets. 

With  an  impatient  tap  of  her  foot  the  May 
Girl  turned  suddenly  back  from  the  window. 

"Yes!  But  where  is  he?"  she  laughed. 

"That's  what  I  say!"  cried  my  Husband. 
"WeVe  waited  quite  long  enough  for  him!" 

"Dallying  up-stairs  probably  to  put  a  dab 
of  black  court-plaster  on  his  cheek!"  observed 
George  Keets  drily. 

With  one  accord  everybody  but  the  May 
Girl  rushed  impulsively  to  the  breakfast  table. 

"Seems  as  though — somebody  ought  to 
wait,"  dimpled  the  May  Girl. 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  asserted  everybody. 


164  RAINY   WEEK 

A  little  bit  reluctantly  she  came  at  last  to 
her  place.  Her  face  was  faintly  troubled. 

"On — on  an  engagement  morning,"  she 
persisted,  "it  certainly  seems  as  though — 
somebody  ought  to  wait." 

In  the  hallway  just  outside  a  light  step 
sounded  suddenly.  It  was  really  astonishing 
with  what  an  air  of  real  excitement  and  ex 
pectancy  everybody  glanced  up. 

But  the  step  in  the  hall  proved  only  the 
step  of  a  maid. 

"The  young  gentleman  upstairs  sent  a  mes 
sage,"  said  the  maid.  "Most  particular  he 
was  that  I  give  it  exact.  'It  being  so  rainy 
again/  he  says,  'and  there  not  being  anything 
specially  interesting  on  the — the  docket  as 
far  as  he  knows,  he'll  stay  in  bed — thank 


you/  " 


For  an  instant  it  seemed  as  though  every 
body  at  the  table  except  Allan  John  jerked 
back  from  his  plate  with  a  knife,  fork  or 
spoon,  brandished  half-way  in  mid  air.  There 
was  no  jerk  left  in  Allan  John,  I  imagine.  It 
was  Allan  John's  color  that  changed.  A  dull 
flush  of  red  where  once  just  gray  shadows  had 
lain. 


RAINY   WEEK  165 

"So  he'll  stay  in  bed,  thank  you/'  repeated 
the  maid  sing-songishly. 

"What?"  gasped  my  Husband. 

"W-w-whatf"  stammered  the  May  Girl. 

"Well — of  all  the — nerve!"  muttered  Paul 
Br  ens  wick. 

"Why — why  how  extraordinary,"  murmured 
Ann  Woltor. 

"There's  your  'artistic  temperament'  for 
you,  all  right!"  laughed  the  Bride  a  bit  hecti 
cally.  "Peeved  is  it  because  he  thought  Miss 
Davies ?" 

"Don't  you  think  you're  just  a  bit  behind 
the  times  in  your  interpretation  of  the  phrase 
*  artistic  temperament'?"  interrupted  George 
Keets  abruptly.  "Except  in  special  neuras 
thenic  cases  it  is  no  longer  the  fashion  I 
believe  to  lay  bad  manners  to  the  artistic 
temperament  itself  but  rather  to  the  humble 
environment  from  which  most  artistic  tem 
peraments  are  supposed  to  have  sprung." 

"Eh?  What's  that?"  laughed  the  Bride. 

Very  deliberately  George  Keets  lit  a  fresh 
cigarette.  "No  one  person,  you  know,  can 
have  everything,"  he  observed  with  the  thin 
nest  of  all  his  thin-lipped  smiles.  "Three 
generations  of  plowing,  isn't  it,  to  raise  one 


166  RAINY   WEEK 

artist?  Oh,  Mr.  Kennilworth 's  social  eccen 
tricities,  I  assure  you,  are  due  infinitely  more 
to  the  soil  than  to  the  soul." 

"Oh,  can  your  statistics!"  implored  my 
Husband  a  bit  sharply,  "and  pass  Miss  Davies 
the  sugar!" 

"And  some  coffee!"  proffered  Paul  Brens- 
wick. 

"And  this  heavenly  cereal!"  urged  the 
Bride. 

"Oh,  now  I  remember,"  winced  the  May 
Girl  suddenly.  "He  said  'she'll  wait  all  right' 
— but,  of  course,  it  does  seem  just  a  little- 
wee  bit — f-funny!  Even  if  you  don't  care 
a — a  rap,"  she  struggled  heroically  through  a 
glint  of  tears.  "Even  if  you  don't  care  a 
rap — sometimes  it's  just  a  little  bit  hard  to 
say  a  word  like  f-funny!" 

"Damned  hard,"  agreed  my  Husband  and 
Paul  Brenswick  and  George  Keets  all  in  a 
single  breath. 

The  subsequent  conversation  fortunately  was 
not  limited  altogether  to  expletives.  Never, 
I'm  sure,  have  I  entertained  a  more  vivacious 
not  to  say  hilarious  company  at  breakfast. 
Nobody  seemed  contented  just  to  keep  dimples 
in  the  May  Girl's  face.  Everybody  insisted 


RAINY   WEEK  167 

upon  giggles.  The  men  indeed  treated  them 
selves  to  what  is  usually  described  as  "wild 
guffaws. ' ' 

Personally  I  think  it  was  a  mistake.  It 
brought  Eollins  down-stairs  just  as  every 
body  was  leaving  the  table  in  what  had  up  to 
that  moment  been  considered  perfectly  rees 
tablished  and  invulnerable  glee.  Everybody, 
of  course,  except  poor  Allan  John.  No  one 
naturally  would  expect  any  kind  of  glee  from 
Allan  John. 

In  the  soft  pussy-footed  flop  of  his  felt 
slippers  none  of  us  heard  Kollins  coming.  But 
I — I  saw  him !  And  such  a  Kollins !  Stripped 
of  the  single  significant  facial  expression  of  his 
life  which  I  had  surprised  so  unexpectedly  in 
his  eyes  the  night  before,  Kollins  would  cer 
tainly  never  be  anything  but  just  Rollins! 
Heavily  swathed  in  his  old  plaid  ulster  with 
a  wet  towel  bound  around  his  brow  he  loomed 
cautiously  on  the  scene  bearing  an  empty 
coffee  cup,  and  from  the  faintly  shadowing 
delicacy  of  the  parted  portieres  affirmed  with 
one  breath  how  astonished  he  was  to  find  us 
still  at  breakfast,  while  with  the  next  he  con 
fided  equally  fatuously,  "I  thought  I  heard 
merry  voices!" 


168  RAINY   WEEK 

It  was  on  Claude  Kennilworth's  absence,  of 
course,  that  his  maddening  little  mind  fixed 
itself  instantly  with  unalterable  concentration. 

"What  ho!  the  —  engagement  1' '  he  de 
manded  abruptly. 

"There  isn't  any  engagement,"  said  my 
Husband  with  a  somewhat  vicious  stab  at  the 
fire. 

From  his  snug,  speculative  scrutiny  <of  the 
storm  outside,  George  Keets  swung  round 
with  what  quite  evidently  was  intended  to  be 
a  warning  frown. 

"Mr.  Kennilworth  has — defaulted,"  he  mur 
mured. 

"Defaulted!"  grinned  Kollins.  Then  with 
perfectly  unprecedented  perspicacity  his  rov 
ing  glance  snatched  up  suddenly "  the  unmis 
takable  tremor  of  the  May  Girl's  chin.  "Oh, 
what  nonsense!"  he  said.  "There  are  plenty 
of  other  eligible  men  in  the  party!" 

"Oh,  but  you  see — there  are  not!"  laughed 
Paul  Brenswick.  "Mr.  Delville  and  I  are 
married — and  our  wives  won't  let  us." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  grinned  Rollins.  Once 
again  his  roving  glance  swept  the  company. 

Everybody   saw  what   was   coming,   turned 


RAINY   WEEK  169 

hot,  turned  cold,  shut  his  eyes,  opened  them 
again, — but  was  powerless  to  avert. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  trying  Allan 
John?"  grinned  Rollins. 

The  thing  was  inexcusable!  Brutal! 
Blundering!  Absolutely  doltish  beyond  even 
Rollins 's  established  methods  of  doltishness. 
But  at  last  when  everybody  turned  inad 
vertently  to  scan  poor  Allan  John's  face — 
there  was  no  Allan  John  to  be  scanned.  Some 
where  through  a  door  or  a  window — somehow 
between  one  blink  of  the  eye  and  another — 
Allan  John  had  slipped  from  the  room. 

"Why — why,  Mr.  Rollins!"  gasped  every 
body  all  at  once.  "Whatever  in  the  world 
were  you  thinking  of?" 

"Maybe — maybe — he  didn't  hear  it — after 
all!"  rallied  the  Bride  with  the  first  real  ray 
of  hope. 

"Maybe  he  just  saw  it  coming,"  suggested 
the  Bridegroom. 

"And  dodged  in  the  nick  of  time,"  said 
George  Keets. 

"To  save  not  only  himself  but  ourselves," 
frowned  my  Husband,  "from  an  almost  irre 
trievable  awkwardness. ' ' 

"Why  just  the  minute  before  it  happened," 


.170  RAilNY   WEEK 

deprecated  Ann  Woltor,  "I  was  thinking 
suddenly  how  much  better  he  looked,  how  his 
color  had  improved, — why  his  cheeks  looked 
almost  red." 

"Yes,  the  top  of  his  cheeks,"  said  the  May 
Girl,  "were  really  quite  red."  Her  own  cheeks 
at  the  moment  were  distinctly  pale.  "Where 
do  you  suppose  he's  gone  to?"  she  questioned. 
"Don't  you  think  that — p'raps — somebody 
ought  to  go  and  find  him?" 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake  leave  him  alone!" 
cried  Paul  Brenswick. 

"Leave  him  alone,"  acquiesced  all  the  other 
men. 

In  the  moment's  nervous  reaction  and  let 
down  that  ensued  it  was  really  a  relief  to  hear 
George  Keets  cry  out,  with  such  poignant 
amazement  from  his  stand  at  the  window : 

"Why  what  in  the  world  is  that  red-roof 
out  on  the  rocks?"  he  cried. 

In  the  same  impulse  both  my  Husband  and 
myself  ran  quickly  to  his  side. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  laughed  my  Hus 
band.  "I  thought  maybe  it  had  blown  off  or 
something.  Why,  that's  just  the  *  Bungalow 
on  the  Rocks,'  "  he  explained. 

"My  Husband's  study  and  work-room,"  I 


RAINY   WEEK  171 

exemplified.  "  'Forbidden-Ground'  is  its  real 
name!  Nobody  is  ever  allowed  to  go  there 
without  an  invitation  from — himself!" 

"Why — but  it  wasn't  there  yesterday!"  as 
serted  George  Keets. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  was!"  laughed  my  Husband. 

"It  was  not!"  said  George  Keets. 

The  sheer  unexpected  primitiveness  of  the 
contradiction  delighted  us  so  that  neither  of 
us  took  the  slightest  offense. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  of  course,  George 
Keets  recovered  himself  almost  in  an  instant — 
that  right  here  before  our  eyes — that  same 
vivid  scarlet  roof  was  looming  there  yesterday 
against  the  gray  rocks  and  sea — and  none  of 
us  saw  it?" 

"Saw  what?"  called  Paul  Brenswick. 
"Where?"  And  came  striding  to  the  window. 

"Gad!"  said  Paul  Brenswick.  "Victoria! 
Come  here,  quick!"  he  called. 

With  frank  curiosity  the  Bride  joined  the 
group.  "Why  of  all  things!"  she  laughed. 
"Why  it  never  in  the  world  was  there  yes 
terday  ! ' ' 

A  trifle  self-consciously  Ann  Woltor  joined 
the  group.  "Bungalow?"  she  questioned.  "A 
Bungalow  out  on  the  rocks."  Her  face  did 


172  RAINY   WEEK 

certainly  look  just  a  little  bit  queer.  Anyone 
who  wanted  to,  was  perfectly  free  of  course,  to 
interpret  the  look  as  one  of  incredulity. 

"No,  of  course  not!  Miss  Woltor  agrees 
with  me  perfectly, "  triumphed  George  Keets. 
"It  was  not  there  yesterday!" 

"Oh,  but  it  must  have  been!"  dimpled  the 
May  Girl.  "If  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Delville  say  so! 
It's  their  bungalow!" 

"It — was — not  there — yesterday,"  puzzled 
George  Keets.  More  than  having  his  honor  at 
stake  he  spoke  suddenly  as  though  he  thought 
it  was  his  reason  that  was  being  threatened. 

With  her  cheeks  quite  rosy  again  the  May 
Girl  began  to  clap  her  hands.  Her  eyes  were 
sparkling  with  excitement. 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  whether  it  was  there  yes 
terday  or  not!"  she  triumphed.  "It's  there 
to-day!  Let's  go  and  explore  it!  And  if  it's 

magic,  so  much  the  better!  Oh,  loo loo — 

look!"  she  cried  as  a  great  roar  and  surge  of 
billows  broke  on  the  rocks  all  around  the  little 
red  roof  and  churned  the  whole  sky-line  into 
a  chaos  of  foam.  "Oh,  come — come!"  she 
besought  everybody. 

"Oh,  but,  my  dear!"  I  explained,  "How 
would  you  get  there?  No  row-boat  could  live 


RAINY   WEEK  173 

in  that  sea!  And  by  way  of  the  rocky  ledge 
there's  no  possible  path  except  at  the  lowest 
tide!  And  besides,"  I  reminded  her,  "it's 
named  'Forbidden  Ground,'  you  know!  No 
body  is  supposed  to  go  there  without " 

With  all  the  impulsiveness  of  an  irrespon 
sible  baby  the  May  Girl  dashed  across  the 
room  and  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck. 

1  'Why,  you  old  dear,"  she  laughed,  "don't 
you  know  that  that's  just  the  reason  why  I 
want  to  explore  it!  I  want  to  know  why  it's 
*  Forbidden  Ground ' !  Oh,  surely  —  surely, ' ' 
she  coaxed,  "even  if  it  is  a  work-room,  there 
couldn't  be  any  real  sin  in  just  prying  a 
little?" 

"No,  of  course,  no  real  sin,"  I  laughed  back 
at  her  earnestness.  "Just  an  indiscretion!" 

Quite  abruptly  the  May  Girl  relaxed  her 
hug,  and  narrowed  her  lovely  eyes  dreamily 
to  some  personal  introspection. 

"I've — never  yet — committed  a  real  indis 
cretion,"  she  confided  with  apparent  regret. 

"Well,  pray  don't  begin,"  laughed  George 
Keets  in  spite  of  himself,  "by  trying  to  ex 
plore  something  that  isn't  there." 

"And  don't  you  and  Keets,"  flared  Paul 


174  RAINY   WEEK 

Brenswick  quite  unexpectedly,  "by  denying 
the  existence  of  something  that  is  there!" 

"Well,  if  it  is  there  to-day,"  argued  George 
Keets,  "it  certainly  wasn't  there  yesterday!" 

"Well,  if  it  wasn't  there  yesterday,  it  is  at 
least  there  to-day!"  argued  Paul  Brenswick. 

"Kollins!  Hi  there— Rollins !"  they  both 
called  as  though  in  a  single  breath. 

From  his  humble  seat  on  the  top  stair  to 
which  he  had  wisely  retreated  at  his  first  ink 
ling  of  having  so  grossly  outraged  public 
opinion,  Kollins 's  reply  came  wafting  some 
what  hopefully  back. 

"H— h— iii,"  rallied  Rollins. 

"That  red  roof  on  the  rocks — "  shouted 
Paul  Brenswick. 

"Was  it  there  —  yesterday?"  demanded 
George  Keets. 

"Wait!"  cackled  Kollins.  "Wait  till  I  go 
look!"  A  felt  footstep  thudded.  A  window 
opened.  The  felt  footstep  thudded  again. 
"No,"  called  Rollins.  "Now  that  I  come  to 
think  of  it — I  don't  remember  having  noticed 
a  red  roof  there  yesterday." 

"Now!"  laughed  George  Keets. 

"But,  oh,  I  say!"  gasped  Rollins,  in  what 
seemed  to  be  very  sudden  and  altogether  in- 


RAINY  WEEK  175 

disputable  confusion.  "Why — why  it  must 
have  been  there!  Because  that's  the  shack 
where  we've  catalogued  the  shells  every  year 
— for  the  last  seven  years!" 

"Now!"  laughed  Paul  Brenswick. 

Without  another  word  everybody  made  a 
bolt  for  the  hat-rack  and  the  big  oak  settle, 
snatched  up  his  or  her  oil-skin  clothes — 
anybody's  oil-skin  clothes — and  dashed  oft 
through  the  rain  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  to 
investigate  the  phenomenon  at  closer  range. 

Truly  the  thing  was  almost  too  easy  to  be 
really  righteous!  Just  a  huge  rock-colored 
tarpaulin  stripped  at  will  from  a  red-tiled  roof 
and  behold,  mystery  looms  on  an  otherwise 
drab-colored  day!  And  a  mystery  at  a  house- 
party?  Well — whoever  may  stand  proven  as 
the  mother  of  invention — Curiosity,  you  know 
just  as  well  as  I  do,  is  the  father  of  a  great 
many  very  sprightly  little  adventures! 

Within  ten  minutes  from  the  proscenium 
box  of  our  big  bay-window,  my  Husband  and 
I  could  easily  discern  the  absurd  little  plot  and 
counterplots  that  were  already  being  hatched. 

It  was  the  Bride  and  George  Keets  who 
seemed  to  be  thinking,  pointing,  gesticulating, 
in  the  only  perfect  harmony.  Even  at  this 


176  RAINY   WEEK 

distance,  and  swathed  as  they  were  in  hastily 
adjusted  oil-skins,  a  curiously  academic  sort 
of  dignity  stamped  their  every  movement. 
Nothing  but  sheer  intellectual  determination 
to  prove  that  their  minds  were  normal  would 
ever  tempt  either  one  of  them  to  violate  a 
Host's  "No  Trespass"  sign! 

Nothing  academic  about  Paul  Brenswick's 
figure!  With  one  yellow  elbow  crooked  to 
shield  the  rain  from  his  eyes  he  stood  esti 
mating  so  many  probable  feet  of  this,  so  many 
probable  feet  of  that.  He  was  an  engineer! 
Perspectives  were  his  playthings!  And  if 
there  was  any  new  trick  about  perspectives 
that  he  didn't  know — he  was  going  to  solve 
it  now — no  matter  what  it  cost  either  him  or 
anybody  else! 

More  like  a  young  colt  than  anything  else, 
like  a  young  colt  running  for  its  pasture- 
bars,  the  May  Girl  dashed  vainly  up  and 
down  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  Nothing  academic, 
nothing  of  an  engineer— about  any  young  colt ! 
If  the  May  Girl  reached  "the  Bungalow  on  the 
Bocks"  it  would  be  just  because  she  wanted 
to! 

Ann  Woltor's  reaction  was  the  only  one  that 
really  puzzled  me.  Drawn  back  a  little  from 


RAINY   WEEK  177 

the  others,  sheltered  transiently  from  the 
wind  by  a  great  jagged  spur  of  gray  rock  but 
with  her  sombre  face  turned  almost  eagerly 
to  the  rain,  she  stood  there  watching  with  a 
perfectly  inexplainable  interest  the  long  white 
blossomy  curve  of  foam  and  spray  which 
marked  the  darkly  submerged  ledge  of  rock 
that  connected  the  red-tiled  bungalow  with  the 
beach  just  below  her.  Ann  Woltor  certainly 
was  no  prankish  child.  Neither  was  it  to  be 
supposed  that  any  particular  problem  of  per 
spective  had  flecked  her  mind  into  the  slightest 
uneasiness.  Ann  Woltor  knew  that  the  bunga 
low  was  there !  Had  spent  at  least  nine  hours 
in  it  on  the  previous  day!  Lunched  in  it! 
Supped  in  it!  Proved  its  inherent  prosiness! 
Yet  even  I  was  puzzled  as  she  crept  out  from 
the  shelter  of  her  big  boulder  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  cliff,  and  leaned  away  out  still  staring, 
always  at  that  wave-tormented  ledge. 

From  the  hyacinth-scented  shadows  just  be 
hind  me  I  heard  a  sudden  little  laugh. 

"I'll  wager  you  a  new  mink  muff,"  said  my 
Husband  quite  abruptly,  "that  Ann  Woltor 
gets  there  first!" 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  this  annual  Rainy  Week  drama  of  ours, 
one  of  the  very  best  parts  I  "double"  in, 
is  with  the  chambermaid,  making  beds! 

Once  having  warned  my  guests  of  this 
occasional  domestic  necessity,  I  ought,  I 
suppose,  to  feel  absolutely  relieved  of  any 
embarrassing  sense  of  intrusion  incidental  to 
the  task.  But  there  is  always,  somehow,  such 
an  unwarrantable  sense  of  spiritual  rather 
than  material  intimacy  connected  with  the  sight 
of  a  just  deserted  guest-room.  Particularly 
so,  I  think,  in  a  sea-shore  guest-room.  A  beach 
makes  such  big  babies  of  us  all! 

Country-house  hostesses  have  never  men 
tioned  it  as  far  as  I  can  remember.  Moun 
tains  evidently  do  not  recover  for  us  that  par 
ticular  kind  of  lost  rapture.  Nor  even  green 
pine  woods  revive  the  innocent  lusts  of  the 
little.  But  in  a  sea-shore  guest-room,  every 
fresh  morning  of  the  world,  as  long  as  time 

178 


RAINY   WEEK  179 

lasts,  you  will  find  on  bureau-top  desk  or 
table,  mixed  up  with  chiffons  and  rouges, 
crowding  the  tennis  rackets  or  base  balls, 
blurring  the  open  sophisticate  page  of  the 
latest  French  novel,  that  dear,  absurd,  ever- 
increasing  little  hoard  of  childish  treasures! 
The  round,  shining  pebbles,  the  fluted  clam 
shell,  the  wopse  of  dried  sea-weed,  a  feather 
perhaps  from  a  gull's  wing!  Things  common 
as  time  itself,  repetitive  as  sand!  Yet  irre 
sistibly  covetable!  How  do  you  explain  it? 

Who  in  the  world,  for  instance,  would  expect 
to  find  a  cunningly  contrived  toy-boat  on 
Kollins's  bureau  with  two  star-fish  listed  as 
the  only  passengers!  Or  Paul  Brenswick 's 
candle  thrust  into  a  copperas-tinted  knot  of 
water-logged  cedar?  In  the  snug  confines  of  a 
small  cigar  box  on  a  lovely  dank  bed  of  ma 
roon  and  gray  sea-weed  Victoria  Brenswick 
had  nested  her  treasure-trove.  Certainly  the 
quaint  garnet  necklace  could  hardly  have 
found  a  more  romantic  and  ship-wrecky  sort  of 
a  setting.  Even  Allan  John  had  started  a  little 
procession  of  sand-dollars  across  his  mantel 
piece.  But  there  was  no  silver  whistle  figur 
ing  a>s  the  band,  I  noticed. 

What  would  Victoria  Brenswick  have  said, 


180  RAINY   WEEK 

I  wondered,  what  would  Allan  John  have 
thought  if  they  had  even  so  much  as  dreamed 
that  these  precious  "ship-wreck  treasures" 
of  theirs  had  been  purchased  brand  new  in 
Boston  Town  within  a  week  and  "planted" 
most  carefully  by  my  Husband  with  all  those 
other  pseudo  mysteries  in  the  old  trunk  in 
the  sand?  But  goodness  me,  one's  got  to 
"start"  something  on  the  first  day  of  even 
the  most  ordinary  house-party! 

With  so  much  to  watch  outside  the  window, 
figures  still  moving  eagerly  up  and  down  the 
edge  of  the  cliff,  and  so  much  to  think  about 
inside,  all  the  little  personal  whims  and  fan 
cies  betrayed  by  the  various  hoards,  the  bed- 
making  industry  I'm  afraid  was  somewhat 
slighted  on  this  particular  morning.  Was  my 
Husband  still  standing  at  that  down-stairs 
window,  I  wondered,  speculating  about  that 
bungalow  on  the  rocks  even  as  I  stood  at  the 
window  just  above  him  speculating  on  the 
same  subject?  Why  did  he  think  that  Ann 
Woltor  would  be  the  one  to  get  there  first? 
What  had  Ann  Woltor  left  there  the  day  be 
fore  that  made  her  specially  anxious  to  get 
there  first?  Truly  this  Rainy  Week  experi 
ment  develops  some  rather  unique  puzzles. 


RAINY   WEEK  181 

Maybe  if  I  tried,  I  thought,  I  could  add  a 
little  puzzle  of  my  own  invention!  Just  for 
sheer  restiveness  I  turned  and  made  another 
round  of  the  guest-rooms.  Now  that  I  re 
membered  it  there  was  a  bit  more  sand  oozing 
from  the  Bride 's  necklace  box  to  the  mahogany 
bureau-top  than  was  really  necessary. 

The  rest  of  the  morning  passed  without 
special  interest.  But  the  luncheon  hour  de 
veloped  a  most  extraordinary  interest  in  the 
principles  of  physical  geography  which  be 
ginning  with  all  sorts  of  valuable  observations 
concerning  the  weight  of  the  atmosphere  or 
the  conformation  of  mountains  or  the  law  of 
tides,  ended  invariably  with  the  one  direct 
question:  "At  just  what  hour  this  evening, 
for  instance,  will  the  tide  be  lo  wagain?" 

My  Husband  was  almost  beside  himself  with 
concealed  delight. 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  think  for  a  moment,  do 
you — "  I  implored  him  in  a  single  whisper  of 
privacy  snatched  behind  the  refilling  of  the 
coffee  urn.  "You  don't  think  for  a  moment 
that  anybody  would  be  rash  enough  to  try 
and  make  the  trip  in  the  big  dory?" 

1 '  Well— hardly, ' '  laughed  my  Husband.  *  '  If 
you'd  seen  where  I've  hidden  the  oars!" 


182  RAINY   WEEK 

The  oars  apparently  were  not  the  only  things 
hidden  at  the  moment  from  mortal  ken.  Claude 
Kennilworth  and  Ego  still  persisted  quite 
brutally  in  withholding  their  charms  from  us. 
Eollins  had  retreated  to  the  sacristy  of  his 
own  room  to  complete  his  convalescence.  And 
even  Allan  John  seemed  to  have  wandered  for 
the  time  being  beyond  the  call  of  either  voice 
or  luncheon  bell.  Allan  John's  deflection  wor 
ried  the  May  Girl  a  little  I  think,  but  not 
unduly.  It  didn't  worry  the  men  at  all. 

"When  a  chap  wants  to  be  alone — he  wants 
to  be  alone!"  explained  Paul  Brenswick  with 
unassailable  conciseness. 

"It's  a  darned  good  sign,"  agreed  my  Hus 
band,  "that  he's  ready  to  be  alone!  It's  the 
first  time,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  that's  all  right,  of  course,"  conceded 
the  May  Girl  amiably,  "if  you're  quite  sure 
that  he  was  dressed  right  for  it." 

"Maybe  a  hike  on  the  beach  at  just  this 
moment,  whether  he's  dressed  right  for  it  or 
not,"  asserted  George  Keets,  "is  just  the  one 
thing  the  poor  devil  needs  to  sweep  the  last 
cobweb  out  of  his  brain." 

"I  agree  with  you  perfectly,"  said  Victoria 
Brenswick. 


RAINY  WEEK  183 

It  was  really  astonishing  in  a  single  morn 
ing  how  many  things  George  Keets  and  the 
Bride  had  discovered  that  they  agreed  on  per 
fectly.  It  teased  the  Bridegroom  a  little  I 
think.  But  anyone  could  have  seen  that  it 
actually  puzzled  the  Bride.  And  women,  when 
they  are  puzzled,  I've  noticed,  are  pretty  apt 
to  insist  upon  tracing  the  puzzle  to  its  source. 
So  that  when  George  Keets  suggested  a  further 
exploration  of  the  dunes  as  the  most  plausible 
diversion  for  the  afternoon,  it  wouldn't  have 
surprised  me  at  all  if  Victoria  Brenswick 
had  not  only  acquiesced  in  the  suggestion  for 
herself  and  her  Bridegroom  but  exacted  its 
immediate  fulfillment.  She  did  not,  however. 
Quite  peremptorily,  in  fact,  she  announced  in 
stead  her  own  and  her  Bridegroom's  unalter 
able  intent  to  remain  at  home  in  the  big  warm 
library  by  the  apple-wood  fire. 

It  was  the  May  Girl  who  insisted  on  forging 
forth  alone  with  George  Keets  into  the  storm. 

"Why,  I  shall  perish,"  dimpled  the  May 
Girl,  "if  I  don't  get  some  more  exercise  to-day! 
— Weather  like  this — why — why  it's  so  glori 
ous!"  she  thrilled.  "So  maddeningly  glorious! 
— I — I  wish  I  was  a  seagull  so  I  could  breast 
right  off  into  the  foam  and  blast  of  it!  I 


184  RAINY   WEEK 

wish — I  wish !"  But  what  page  is  long 

enough  to  record  the  wishes  of  Eighteen? 

My  Husband  evidently  had  no  wish  in  the 
world  except  to  pursue  the  cataloging  of 
shells  in  Bollins's  crafty  company. 

Ann  Woltor  confessed  quite  frankly  that  her 
whole  human  interest  in  the  afternoon  cen 
tred  solely  on  the  matter  of  sleep. 

Hyacinths,  of  course,  are  my  own  unfailing 
diversion. 

Tracking  me  just  a  little  bit  self-consciously 
to  my  hyacinth  lair,  the  Bride  seemed  rather 
inclined  to  dally  a  moment,  I  noticed,  before 
returning  to  her  Bridegroom  and  the  library 
fire.  Her  eyes  were  very  interesting.  What 
bride's  are  not?  Particularly  that  Bride 
whose  intellect  parallels  even  her  emotions. 

"Maybe,"  she  essayed  quite  abruptly, 
"Maybe  it  was  a  trifle  funny  of  me  not  to 
tramp  this  afternoon.  But  the  bridge-build 
ing  work  begins  again  next  week,  you  know. 
It's  pretty  strenuous,  everybody  says.  Men 
come  home  very  tired  from  it.  Not  specially 
sociable.  So  I  just  made  up  my  mind,"  she 
said,  in  a  voice  that  though  playfully  lowered 
was  yet  rather  curiously  intense.  "So  I  just 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  stay  at  home 


RAINY  WEEK  185 

this  afternoon  and  get  acquainted  with  my 
Husband."  Half -proud,  half-shamed,  her  puz 
zled  eyes  lifted  to  mine.  "Because  it's  dawned 
on  me  very  suddenly,"  she  laughed,  "that  I 
don't  know  my  Husband's  opinion  on  one 
solitary  subject  in  the  world  except  —  just 
me!"  "With  a  rather  amusing  little  flush  she 
stooped  down  and  smothered  her  face  in  a  pot 
of  blue  hyacinths.  "Oh — hyacinths!"  she 
murmured.  "And  May  rain!  The  smell  of 
them !  Will  I  ever  forget  the  fragrance  of  this 
week — while  Time  lasts?"  But  the  eyes  that 
lifted  to  mine  again  were  still  puzzled.  * '  Now — 
that  Mr.  Keets,"  she  faltered.  "Why  in  just 
an  hour  or  two  this  morning,  why  in  just 
the  little  time  that  luncheon  takes,  I  know  his 
religion  and  his  Mother's  first  name.  I  know 
his  philosophies,  and  just  why  he  adores  Bus 
kin  and  disagrees  with  Bernard  Shaw.  I  know 
where  he  usually  stays  when  he's  in  Amster 
dam  and  just  what  hotel  we  both  like  best  in 
Paris.  Why  I  know  even  where  he  buys  his 
boots,  and  why.  And  I  buy  mine  at  the  same 
place  and  for  just  exactly  the  same  reason. 
But  my  Husband."  Quite  in  spite  of  herself 
a  little  laugh  slipped  from  her  lips.  "Why — 
I  don't  even  know  how  my  Husband  votes!" 


186  RAINY   WEEK 

she  gasped.  In  some  magic,  excitative  flash  of 
memory  her  breath  began  to  quicken.  "It — 
It  was  at  college,  you  know,  that  we  met — 
Paul  and  I,"  she  explained.  "At  a  dance  the 
night  before  my  graduation."  Once  again 
her  face  flamed  like  a  rose.  "Why,  we  were 
engaged,  you  know,  within  a  week!  And  then 
Paul  went  to  China ! — Oh,  of  course,  we  wrote, ' ' 
she  said,  "and  almost  every  day,  too.  But — ." 

"But  lovers,  of  course,  don't  write  a  great 
deal  about  buying  boots,"  I  acquiesced,  "nor 
even  so  specially  much  about  Euskin  nor  even 
*heir  mothers." 

In  the  square  of  the  library  doorway  a  man's 
figure  loomed  a  bit  suddenly. 

"Vic!  Aren't  you  ever  coming?"  fretted 
her  impatient  Bridegroom. 

Like  a  homing  bird  she  turned  and  sped  to 
her  mate! 

Yet  an  hour  later,  when  I  passed  the  library 
door,  I  saw  Paul  Brenswick  lying  fast  asleep 
in  the  depth  of  his  big  leather  chair.  Fire 
wasted — books  neglected — Chance  itself  for 
gotten  or  ignored !  But  the  Bride  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen. 

I  was  quite  right  though  when  I  thought 
that  I  should  find  her  in  her  room.  Just  as  I 


RAINY   WEEK  187 

expected,  too,  she  was  standing  by  the  window 
staring  somewhat  blankly  out  at  the  Dunes. 

But  the  eyes  that  she  lifted  to  me  this  time 
were  not  merely  puzzled — they  were  suffering. 
If  Paul  Brenswick  could  have  seen  his  beloved 
at  this  moment  and  even  so  much  as  hoped 
that  there  was  a  God,  he  would  have  gone  down 
on  his  knees  then  and  there  and  prayed  that 
for  Love's  sake  the  very  real  shock  which 
he  had  just  given  her  would  end  in  laughter 
rather  than  tears.  Yet  her  speech,  when  it 
came  at  last,  was  perfectly  casual. 

"He — he  wouldn't  talk,"  she  said. 

"Couldn't,  you  mean!"  I  contradicted  her 
quite  sharply.  "Husbands  can't,  you  know! 
Marriage  seems  to  do  something  queer  to  their 
vocal  chords." 

"Your  husband  talks,"  smiled  the  Bride 
very  faintly. 

"Oh— beautifully,"  I  admitted.  "But  not 
to  me!  It  doesn't  seem  to  be  quite  compatible 
with  established  romance  somehow,  this  talk 
ing  business,  between  husbands  and  wives." 

"Komance?"  rallied  the  Bride.  "Would 
you  call  Mr.  Delville  ex — exactly  romantic!" 

"Oh — very!"  I  boasted.  "But  not  conver 
sationally." 


188  RAINY  WEEK 

"But  I  wanted  to  talk,"  said  the  Bride, 
very  slowly. 

"Why,  of  course,  you  did,  you  dear  dar 
ling!"  I  cried  out  impulsively.  "Most  brides 
do!  You  wanted  to  discuss  and  decide  in 
about  thirty  minutes  every  imaginable  issue 
that  is  yet  to  develop  in  all  the  long  glad  years 
you  hope  to  have  together!  The  friends  you 
are  going  to  build.  Why  you  haven't  even 
glimpsed  a  child's  picture  in  a  magazine,  this 
the  first  week  of  your  marriage,  without  stay 
ing  awake  half  the  night  to  wonder  what  your 
children's  children's  names  will  be." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  the  Bride,  a 
bit  incisively. 

"Because  once  I  was  a  Bride  myself,"  I 
said.  "But  this  Paul  of  yours,"  I  insisted. 
"This  Paul  of  yours,  you  see,  hasn't  finished 
wondering  yet  about  just  you !" 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  called  my  own  hus 
band  through  the  half  open  doorway,  "what's 
all  this  pow-wow  about?" 

"About  husbands,"  I  answered,  quite  frank 
ly.  "An  argument  in  fact  as  to  whether  taken 
all  in  all  a  husband  is  ever  very  specially 
amusing  to  talk  to." 

"Amusing  to  talk  to?"  hooted  my  Husband. 


RAINY   WEEK  189 

"Never!  Then  most  that  any  poor  husband 
can  hope  for  is  to  prove  amusing  to  talk 
about!" 

"Who  said  'Paul'?"  called  that  young  per 
son  himself  from  the  further  shadows  of  the 
hallway. 

"No  one  has,"  I  laughed,  "for  as  much  as 
two  minutes." 

A  trifle  flushed  from  his  nap,  and  most  be 
comingly  dishevelled  as  to  hair,  the  Bride 
groom  stepped  into  the  light.  I  heard  his 
Bride  give  a  little  sharp  catch  of  her  breath. 

"I — I  think  I  must  have  been  asleep,"  said 
the  Bridegroom. 

Twice  the  Bride  swallowed  very  hard  before 
she  spoke. 

"I — I  think  you  must  have,  you  rascal!" 
she  said.  It  was  a  real  victory! 

Really  my  Husband  and  I  would  have  been 
banged  in  the  door  if  we  hadn't  jumped  out  as 
fast  as  we  did! 

George  Keets  and  the  May  Girl  came  in 
from  their  walk  just  before  supper.  Judging 
from  their  personal  appearances  it  had  at  least 
been  a  long  walk  if  not  a  serene  one.  George 
Keets  indeed  seemed  quite  unnecessarily  in 
tent  in  the  vestibule  on  taking  the  May  Girl 


190  RAINY   WEEK 

to  task  for  what  he  evidently  considered  her 
somewhat  careless  method  of  storing  away  her 
afternoon's  'accumulation  of  pebble  and  shell. 
Every  accent  of  his  voice,  every  carefully 
enunciated  syllable  reminded  me  only  too  ab 
surdly  of  what  the  May  Girl  had  confided  to 
me  about  "boys  always  trying  to  make  her 
feel  small."  He  was  urging  her  now,  I  in 
ferred,  to  stop  and  sort  out  her  specimens 
according  to  some  careful  cotton-batting  plan 
which  he  suggested. 

"Whatever  is  worth  doing  at  all,  you  know, 
Miss  Davies,"  he  said,  "is  worth  doing  well." 

The  May  Girl's  voice  sounded  very  tired, 
not  irritable,  but  very  tired. 

"Oh,  if  there's  anything  in  the  world  that  I 
hate,"  I  heard  her  cry  out,  "it's  that  proverb! 
What  people  really  mean  by  it,"  she  protested, 
"is,  *  Whatever 's  worth  doing  at  all  is  worth 
doing  Swell.  And  it  isn't  either!  I  tell  you 
I  like  simple  things  best!  All  I  ever  want  to 
do  with  my  shells  tonight  is  just  to  chuck  'em 
behind  the  door!" 

Truly  if  Claude  Kennilworth  hadn't  turned 
up  for  supper  all  in  white  flannels  and  look 
ing  like  a  young  god,  I  don't  know  just  what 


RAINY  WEEK  191 

I  should  have  done.  Everybody  seemed  either 
so  tired  or  so  distrait. 

The  tide  would  be  low  at  ten  o'clock.  It 
was  eight  when  we  sat  down  to  supper. 

Ann  Woltor  I'm  sure  never  took  her  eyes 
from  the  clock. 

But  to  be  perfectly  frank  everybody  else  at 
the  table  except  the  May  Girl  seemed  to  be 
diverting  such  attention  as  he  or  she  retained 
to  the  personal  appearance  of  Claude  Kennil- 
worth.  Truly  it  wasn't  right  that  anyone  who 
had  been  so  hateful  all  day  long  should  be  able 
to  look  so  perfectly  glorious  in  the  evening. 

"Where  did  you  get  the  suit?"  said  Rollins. 
"Is  it  your  own?" 

"And  the  'permanent  wave'?"  questioned 
the  Bride.  "I  think  you  and  the  ocean  must 
patronize  the  same  hair  dresser." 

"Dark  men  always  do  look  so  fine  in  white 
flannels,"  whispered  Ann  Woltor  to  my  Hus 
band. 

"Personally,"  beamed  Paul  Brenswick, 
"you  look  to  me  like  a  person  who  had  im 
ported  his  own  Turkish  bath." 

"Turkish?"  scoffed  George  Keets.  "No 
body  works  up  a  shine  like  that  by  being 


192  RAINY   WEEK 

washed  only  in  one  language!  Bussian,  too,  it 
must  be!  Flemish " 

"Flemish  are  rabbits,"  observed  the  May 
Girl  gravely.  But  even  with  this  observation 
she  did  not  lift  her  eyes  from  her  plate. 
Whether  she  was  consciously  and  determming- 
ly  ignoring  Claude  Kennilworth's  only  too 
palpable  efforts  to  impress  her  with  the  fact 
that  now  at  last  he  was  ready  to  forgive  her 
and  subjugate  her,  or  whether  she  really 
hadn't  noticed  him,  I  couldn't  quite  make  out. 
And  then  quite  suddenly  at  the  end  of  her 
first  course  she  put  down  her  knife  and  fork 
and  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap.  "Where 
is  Allan  John?"  she  demanded. 

"Why,  yes,  that's  so!  Where  is  Allan 
John!"  questioned  everybody  all  at  once. 

"Some  walk  he's  taking,"  reflected  Paul 
Br  ens  wick. 

"Not  too  long  I  hope,"  worried  my  Husband 
very  faintly. 

"Hang  it  all,  I  do  like  that  lad,"  acknowl 
edged  George  Keets. 

"Who  wouldn't?"  said  Young  Kennilworth. 

"Yes,  but  why?"  demanded  Keets. 

"It's  his  eyes,"  said  the  Bride. 

"Eyes    nothing!"    scoffed    young    Kennil- 


RAINY   WEEK  193 

worth.  "It's  the  way  he  came  out  of  his  fuss 
without  fussing!  To  make  a  fool  of  yourself 
but  never  a  fuss — that's  my  idea  of  a  fellow 
being  a  good  sport!" 

"It  was  his  tragedy  that  I  was  thinking  of," 
said  George  Keets  very  quietly. 

"Yes,  where  in  the  world,"  questioned  my 
Husband  with  quite  unwonted  emotion,  "would 
you  have  found  another  chap  in  the  same 
harrowing  circumstances,  even  among  your 
own  friends,  I  mean,  a  chum,  a  pal,  who  could 
have  dropped  in  here  the  way  he  has,  without 
putting  a  damper  on  everything?  Not  inten 
tionally,  of  course,  but  just  in  the  inevitable 
human  nature  of  things.  But  I  don't  get  the 
slightest  sense  somehow  of  Allan  John  being 
a  damper!" 

"  'Damper?'  "  said  the  Bride.  "Why  he's 
like  a  sick  man  basking  in  the  sun.  Hasn't  a 
word  to  say  himself,  not  a  single  prance  in 
his  own  feet.  But  I'd  as  soon  think  of  shut 
ting  out  the  sun  from  a  sick  man  as  shutting 
out  a  laugh  from  Allan  John.  Why,  Allan 
John  needs  us!"  attested  the  Bride,  "and 
Allan  John  knows  that  he  needs  us!" 

With  a  sideways  glance  at  the  vacant  chair 


194  RAINY   WEEK 

George  Keets's  thin  lips  parted  into  a  really 
sweet  smile. 

"Where  in  creation  is  the  boy!"  he  insisted. 
"Frankly  I  think  we  rather  need  him." 

"All  of  which  being  the  case,"  conceded  my 
Husband,  "it  behooves  me  even  once  more,  I 
should  say,  to  tell  Allan  John  that  the  next 
time  he  speaks  about  'moving  on'  I  shall  hide 
his  clothes.  Certainly  I  haven't  trusted  him 
yet  with  even  a  quarter.  He's  so  extraordi 
narily  fussy  about  thinking  that  he  ought  to 
clear  out." 

It  was  just  at  that  moment  that  the  tele 
phone  rang.  I  decided  to  answer  it  myself, 
for  some  reason,  from  the  instrument  upstairs 
in  my  own  room,  rather  than  from  the 
library.  A  minute's  delay,  and  I  held  the 
transmitter  to  my  lips. 

"Yes,"  I  called. 

"Is  this  Mrs.  Jack  Delville?"  queried  the 
voice. 

"Yes.    Who's  speaking?" 

"It's  Allan  John,"  said  the  voice. 

"Why,  Allan  John!"  I  laughed.  "Of  course 
it  would  be  you !  We  were  just  speaking  about 
you,  and  that's  always  the  funny  way  that 


RAINY  WEEK  195 

things  happen.  But  wherever  in  the  world 
are  you?  We'd  begun  to  worry  a  bit!" 

4 'I'm  in  town,"  said  Allan  John. 

"In  town,"  I  cried.  "Town!  How  did  you 
get  there?" 

In  Allan  John's  voice  suddenly  it  was  as 
though  tone  itself  was  fashion.  "That's  what 
I  want  to  tell  you,"  said  Allan  John.  "I've 
done  a  horrid  thing,  a  regular  kid  college-boy 
sort  of  thing.  I've  taken  something  from  your 
house,  that  silver  salt  cellar  you  know  that  I 
forgot  to  give  back,  and  left  it  with  a  man 
in  the  village  as  security  for  the  price  of  a 
railroad  ticket  to  town,  and  a  telegram  to  my 
brother  and  this  phone  message.  I  didn't  have 
a  cent  you  know.  But  the  instant  I  hear  from 
my  brother " 

"Why,  you  silly!"  I  cried.  "TOy  didn't 
you  speak  to  my  Husband?" 

"Oh,  your  Husband,"  said  Allan  John,  just 
a  bit  drily,  "would  have  given  me  the  whole 
house.  But  he  wouldn't  let  me  leave  it!  And 
it  was  quite  time  I  was  leaving,"  the  voice 
quickened  sharply.  "I  had  to  leave  some  time 
you  know.  And  all  of  a  sudden  I — I  had  to 
leave  at  once!  Eollins,  you  know!  His  break 
about  the  little  girl.  After  young  Kennil- 


196  RAINY   WEEK 

worth's  cubbishness  I  simply  couldn't  put  an 
other  slight  on  that  lovely  little  girl.  But — " 
His  voice  was  all  gray  and  again  spent,  like 
ashes.  "But  I  just  couldn't  play,"  he  said. 
"Not  that!" 

"Why  of  course  you  couldn't  play,"  I  cried. 
"Nobody  expected  you  to!  Rollins  is  a — a 
horror!" 

"Oh,  Rollins  is  all  right  enough,"  said 
Allan  John.  "It's  life  that  is  the  horror." 

"Yes,  but  Allan  John — !"  I  parried. 

"You  people  have  been  angels  to  me,"  he 
interrupted  me  sharply.  "I  shall  never  for 
get  it.  Nor  the  lovely  little  girl.  I'm  going 
back  to  Montana  to  see  how  my  ranch  looks. 
I  can't  talk  now.  Not  to  anybody.  For  God's 
sake  don't  call  anybody.  But  if  I  get  straight 
ened  out  again,  ever,  you'll  hear  from  me. 
And  if  I  don't " 

"But,  Allan  John,"  I  protested.  "Every 
body  will  be  desolated,  your  going  off  like 
this!  Why,  you're  not  even  equipped  in  the 
simplest  way!  Not  a  single  bit  of  baggage! 
Not  a  personal  possession!" 

Across  the  buzzing  wires  it  seemed  suddenly 
as  though  I  could  actually  hear  Allan  John 


RAINY   WEEK  197 

making  one  last  really  desperate  effort  to 
smile. 

"IVe  got  my  little  silver  whistle,"  said 
Allan  John.  As  though  in  confirmation  of  the 
fact  he  lifted  the  silver  bauble  to  his  lips  and 
blew  a  single  flutey  note  across  the  sixty 
miles. 

"Goodbye!"  he  said. 

Before  I  had  fairly  dropped  the  receiver 
back  into  its  place,  the  May  Girl  was  at  my 
elbow.  Her  lovely  childish  eyes  were  strange 
ly  alert,  her  radiant  head  cocked  ever  so 
slightly  to  one  side  as  though  she  held  a 
shell  to  her  listening  ear.  But  there  was  no 
shell  in  her  hand. 

"What  was  that?"  cried  the  May  Girl.  "I 
tkought  I  heard  Allan  John's  whistle!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

WERE  you  ever  in  a  theatre,  right  in 
the  middle  of  a  play,  on  the  very 
verge  of  an  act  that  you  were  really 
quite  curious  about,  and  just  as  the  curtain 
started  to  go  up  it  was  suddenly  yanked  down 
again  instead,  and  a  woman  behind  the  scenes 
screamed — oh,  horridly,  and  a  man  came  rush 
ing  out  in  front  of  the  curtain  waving  his 
arms  and  trying  to  tell  everybody  something, 
but  everybody  all  of  a  sudden  was  so  busy 
screaming  for  himself  that  even  God,  I  think, 
couldn't  have  made  you  hear  just  what  the 
trouble  was? 

It  isn't  a  pleasant  thing  to  have  happen. 

But  that  is  almost  exactly  what  happened 
to  our  Rainy  Week  play  on  this  the  fourth 
night  of  events  just  as  I  was  waiting  for  the 
curtain  to  rise  on  the  most  carefully  staged 
scene  which  we  had  prepared,  the  scene  desig 
nated  as  "The  Bungalow  on  tlie  Rocks." 

And  the  woman  who  screamed  was  the  May 

198 


RAINY   WEEK  199 

Girl.  And  the  man  who  came  rushing  back 
to  try  and  explain  was  Rollins.  And  the  May 
Girl  it  proved  was  screaming  because  she 
was  drowning!  And  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
silly  little  Pom  dog  that  Claude  Kennilworth 
had  been  silly  enough  to  bring  way  from  New 
York  "for  a  week's  outing  at  the  sea  shore" 
just  to  please  the  extraordinarily  silly  girl  who 
occupied  the  studio  next  to  his,  the  May  Girl 
would  have  drowned!  It  makes  one  feel  al 
most  afraid  to  move,  somehow,  or  even  not  to 
move,  for  that  matter,  afraid  to  be  silly  in 
deed,  or  even  not  to  be  silly,  lest  it  foil  or 
foul  in  some  bungling  way  the  plot  of  life 
which  the  Biggest  Dramatist  of  All  had  really 
intended. 

It  was  Ann  Woltor  who  gave  the  only 
adequate  explanation. 

Everybody  had  at  least  pretended  that  night 
the  unalterable  intention  of  going  to  bed  early. 

Claude  Kennilworth  of  course  having 
absented  himself  from  the  breakfast  table 
didn't  know  anything  about  the  bungalow  dis 
cussion.  But  pique  alone  at  the  May  Girl's 
persistent  yet  totally  unexcited  rebuff  of  his 
patronage  had  retired  him  earlier  than  any 
one  to  the  seclusion  of  his  own  room.  And 


200  RAINY   WEEK 

Rollins 's  unhappy  propensity  of  always  and 
forever  butting  into  other  people's  plans  had 
been  most  efficiently  thwarted,  as  far  as  we 
could  see,  by  dragging  him  upstairs  and  slam 
ming  his  nose  into  a  brand  new  and  very 
profusely  illustrated  tome  on  the  subject  of 
"The  Violet  Snail." 

By  half  past  ten,  Ann  Woltor  confessed  she 
had  found  the  whole  lower  part  of  the  house 
apparently  deserted. 

For  the  same  reason,  best  known  even  yet 
only  to  herself,  she  was  still  very  anxious  it 
appeared  to  get  to  the  bungalow  before  any 
of  her  house-companions  should  have  fore 
stalled  her.  The  trip,  I  judged,  had  not 
proved  unduly  hard.  By  the  aid  of  a  pocket 
flashlight  she  had  made  the  descent  of  the 
cliff  without  accident,  and  after  a  single  con 
fusion  where  a  blind  trail  ended  in  the  water 
discovered  the  jagged  path  that  twisted  along 
the  ledge  to  the  very  door  of  the  bungalow. 
Once  in  the  bungalow  she  had  dallied  only 
long  enough  to  search  out  by  the  aid  of  the 
flashlight  the  particular  object  or  objects  which 
she  had  come  for.  Startled  by  a  little  sound, 
the  sound  of  a  man  humming  a  little  French 
tune  that  she  hadn't  heard  for  fifteen  years, 


RAINY   WEEK  201 

she  had  grabbed  up  her  treasure,  whatever  it 
was,  and  bolted  precipitously  for  the  house, 
not  knowing  she  had  sprung  the  trap  of  our 
concealed  phonograph  when  she  opened  the 
door.  Even  once  back  in  the  safe  precincts 
of  the  house,  however,  she  was  further  startled 
and  completely  upset  by  running  into  the  May 
Girl. 

The  May  Girl  was  on  the  stairs,  it  seemed, 
just  coming  down.  And  she  didn't  look  "quite 
right,"  Ann  Woltor  admitted.  That  is,  she 
looked  almost  as  though  she  was  walking  in 
her  sleep,  or  a  bit  dazed,  a  bit  bewildered, 
and  certainly,  dressed  as  she  was,  just  a  filmy 
night-gown  with  her  warm  blanket  wrapper 
merely  lashed  across  her  shoulders  by  its 
sleeves,  her  pretty  feet  bare,  her  gauzy  hair 
floating  like  an  aura  all  around  her,  it  cer 
tainly  wasn't  to  be  supposed  that  she  was 
just  starting  off  on  a  prankish  endeavor  to 
solve  the  bungalow  mystery.  Even  her  eyes 
looked  unreal  to  Ann  Woltor.  Even  her  voice, 
when  she  spoke,  sounded  more  than  a  little 
bit  queer. 

"I — I  thought  I  heard  Allan  John  whistle" 
she  said.  "I — I  promised,  you  know,  that  if 
he  ever  needed  me  I'd  come." 


202  RAINY   WEEK 

Ann  Woltor  nearly  collapsed.  * '  Nonsense ! ' ' 
she  explained.  "Allan  John  is  in  town!  Don't 
you  remember?  He  telephoned  while  we  were 
at  supper.  Mrs.  Delville  delivered  his  mes 
sages  and  good-byes  to  us." 

"Why,  yes,  of  course!"  roused  the  May 
Girl,  almost  instantly.  "How  silly! — I  guess 
I  must  have  been  asleep!  And  just  dreamed 
it!" 

"Why,  of  course,  you  were  asleep  and 
just  dreamed  it."  Ann  Woltor  assured  her. 
"You're  asleep  now!  Get  back  to  bed  before 
you  catch  your  death  of  cold!  Or  before  any 
body  sees  you!" 

Ann  Woltor,  on  the  verge  of  hysterics  her 
self,  quite  naturally  was  not  at  all  anxious 
that  those  dazed,  bewildered  eyes  should  clear 
suddenly  and  with  inevitable  questioning  upon 
her  own  distinctly  drenched  and  most  wind 
blown  and  generally  dishevelled  appearance. 

A  single  little  shove  of  the  shoulders  had 
proved  enough  to  herd  the  May  Girl  back  to 
her  bed-room  while  she  herself  had  escaped 
undetected  to  her  own  quarters. 

But  the  May  Girl  had  not  been  satisfied,  it 
appeared,  with  Ann  Woltor  ?s  assurances  con 
cerning  Allan  John. 


RAINY   WEEK  203 

An  hour  or  more  later,  roused  once  again  to 
a  still  somewhat  dazed  but  now  unalterable 
conviction  that  Allan  John  had  whistled,  and 
fully  equipped  this  time  to  combat  whatever 
opposition  or  weather  she  might  meet,  she 
crept  from  the  house  out  into  the  storm  with 
the  little  Pom  dog  sniffing  at  her  heels.  Just 
what  happened  afterwards  nobody  knows. 
Just  how  it  happened  or  exactly  when  it 
happened,  nobody  can  even  guess.  Maybe  it 
was  the  brilliantly  lighted  bungalow  my  Hus 
band  had  fixed  for  the  setting  of  the  "Bunga 
low  Scene"  just  after  Ann  Woltor's  surrepti 
tious  visit  that  incited  her.  Maybe  to  a  mind 
already  stricken  with  feverishness  the  rising 
tide  did  suck  through  the  bungalow  rocks 
with  a  sound  that  faintly  suggested  a  rather 
specially  agonized  sort  of  whistle.  Who  can 
say?  The  fact  remains  that  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  she  seemed  to  have  ignored  the 
ledge  that  even  yet,  in  spite  of  its  drenching 
spray,  would  have  been  perfectly  safe  for  an 
other  half  hour  at  least,  and  plunged  forth 
down  the  blind  trail,  off  the  rocks  into  the 
water  below.  Kesolutely  she  refused  to  cry 
for  help.  Perhaps  the  shock  of  the  cold  water 
chilled  the  cry  in  her  throat.  She  grasped  the 


204  RAINY   WEEK 

slippery  seaweed  clinging  to  the  rocks — moan 
ing  a  little — crying  a  little — the  pitiful  strug 
gle  setting  the  Pom  dog  nearly  crazy.  How 
long  she  clung  there  she  couldn't  tell.  She 
was  mauled  and  bruised  by  the  threshing 
waves.  Still  some  complex  inhibition  pre 
vented  her  crying  out  for  help.  Ages  passed, 
her  bruised  arms  and  numb  fingers  refused  to 
hold  the  grip  on  the  elusive  seaweed  forever 
and  she  eventually  let  go  her  hold.  A  receding 
wave  took  her  and  tossed  her  poor  exhausted 
body  still  struggling  against  another  ledge  of 
rock  well  out  of  reach  from  shore.  Then,  for 
the  first  time,  the  May  Girl  seemed  to  realize 
fully  her  peril — and  she  shrieked  for  help. 

Ann  Woltor,  rousing  sluggishly  from  her 
sleep,  heard  the  black  Pom  dog  barking  furi 
ously  on  the  beach.  Eeluctant  at  first  to  leave 
her  snug  bed  it  must  have  been  several 
minutes  at  least  before  sheer  curiosity  and 
irritation  drove  her  to  get  up  and  peer  from 
the  window. 

Out  of  that  murky  blackness  of  course  not 
a  single  outline  of  the  little  dog  met  her 
sight.  Just  that  incessant  yap-yap-yap-yap  of 
a  tiny  creature  almost  frenzied  with  excite 
ment.  But  what  really  smote  Ann  Woltor 's 


RAINY   WEEK  205 

startled  vision,  and  for  the  first  time,  was  the 
flare  of  lights,  which  made  the  bungalow  seem 
as  if  ablaze.  And  as  she  stared  aghast  into 
that  flare  of  light  which  seemed  to  point  so  ac 
cusingly  at  her  across  the  intervening  waters, 
she  either  sensed  or  saw — the  May  GirPs  un 
mistakable  head  and  shoulders  banging  into 
the  single  craggy  rock  that  still  jutted  up  from 
the  depths — saw  an  arm  reach  out — heard  that 
one  blood-curdling  scream! 

Rollins  must  have  thought  she  was  mad! 
Dragging  him  from  his  bed,  with  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  her  lips  crushed  to  his  ear, — 
even  then  she  could  hardly  articulate  or  make 
a  sound  louder  than  a  whisper. 

Rollins  fortunately  did  not  lose  his  voice. 
Rollins  bellowed.  Rushing  out  into  the  hall 
just  as  he  was,  pajamas,  nightcap  and  all,  Rol 
lins  lifted  his  voice  like  a  baying  hound. 

In  a  moment  all  hands  were  on  deck.  My 
Husband  rushed  for  the  dory — George  Keets 
with  him,  Paul  Brenswick,  Kennilworth,  Rol 
lins! 

The  women  huddled  on  the  beach. 

"Hold  on!  Hold  on!"  we  shouted  into 
space.  "Just  a  minute  more! — Just  one 
minute  more!" 


206  RAINY   WEEK 

We  might  just  as  well  have  shouted  into  a 
saw-dust  pile. — The  wind  took  the  words  and 
rammed  them  down  our  throats  again  till  we 
sickened  and  choked! 

Young  Kennilworth  came  running.  He  was 
still  in  his  white  flannels.  He  looked  like  a 
ghost. 

"There's  been  some  hitch  about  the  oars!" 
he  cried.  "Is  she  still  there?'' 

In  the  flare  of  our  lantern  light  I  turned 
suddenly  and  stared  at  him.  He  looked  so 
queer.  In  a  moment  so  awful,  it  seemed  al 
most  incredible  that  any  human  face  could 
have  summoned  so  much  EGO  into  it.  From 
those  gay,  pleasure-roaming  feet,  it  must  have 
come  hurtling  suddenly  —  that  expression! 
From  those  facile  self-assured  finger  tips  that 
were  already  coaxing  the  secrets  of  line  and 
form  from  the  Creator ! — From  that  lusty,  hot- 
blooded  young  heart  that  was  even  now 
accumulating  its  "Pasts!" — From  the  arro 
gant,  brilliant  young  brain  that  knew  only  too 
well  that  it  had  a  "FUTURE!" — And  even  as 
I  watched,  young  Kennilworth  stripped  the 
white  flannels  from  his  body.  And  the  pleas 
ure.  And  the  triumph.  And  all  the  little 
pasts.  And  all  the  one  big  future.  And  he 


RAINY   WEEK  207 

who  had  come  so  presumptuously  to  us  to 
make  an  infinitesimal  bronze  replica  of  the 
sea — went  forth  very  humbly  from  us  to  make 
a  man-sized  model  of  sacrifice. 

For  an  instant  only  as  he  steadied  for  the 
plunge  a  flash  of  the  old  mockery  crossed  his 
face. 

"Of  course  I'm  stronger  than  the  ocean, " 
he  called  back.  "But  if  it  shouldn't  prove  so 
— don't  forget  my  Old  Man's  birthday!" 

Ann  Woltor  fainted  as  his  slim  body  struck 
the  waves. 

Hours  passed — ages,  aeons — before  the  dory 
reached  them!  Yet  my  husband  says  that  it 
way  only  minutes.  By  the  merciful  provi 
dence  of  darkness  we  were  at  least  spared 
some  of  the  visual  stages  of  that  struggle. 
Minutes  or  aeons — there  were  not  even  seconds 
to  spare,  it  proved  by  the  time  help  actually 
arrived.  Claude  Kennilworth  had  a  broken 
arm,  but  was  at  least  conscious.  The  May 
Girl  looked  as  though  she  would  never  be 
conscious  again.  Against  the  ghastly  pallor 
of  her  skin  the  brutal  bruises  loomed  like 
love's  last  offering  of  violets.  The  flexible 
finger-tips  had  clawed  themselves  to  pulp  and 
blood. 


208  RAINY   WEEK 

The  village  doctor  came  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind!  We  telephoned  Dr.  Brawne,  but  he  was 
away  on  a  business  trip  somewhere  and  could 
not  be  located!  The  rest  of  the  night  went 
by  like  a  brand-new  battle  for  life,  but  in  the 
full  glare  of  lamp-light  this  time!  By  break 
fast-time,  if  one  can  compute  hours  so  on  a 
morning  when  nobody  eats,  Claude  Kennil- 
worth  was  almost  himself  again.  But  the 
May  Girl's  vitality  failed  utterly  to  rally. 
White  as  the  linen  that  encompassed  her  she 
lay  in  that  dreadful  stupor  among  her  pillows. 
Only  once  she  roused  herself  to  any  attempt  at 
speech  and  even  then  her  words  were  almost 
inaudible.  " Allan  John,"  she  struggled  to 
say.  "Was  trying to  find  him." 

"Has  she  had  any  shock  before  this!" 
puzzled  the  Doctor.  "Any  recent  calamity? 
Any  special  threat  of  impending  illness?" 

"She  fainted  day  before  yesterday,"  was  all 
the  information  anybody  could  proffer.  "She 
is  subject  to  fainting  spells,  it  seems.  Last 
night  Miss  Woltor  thought  she  looked  a  little 
bit  dazed  as  though  with  a  touch  of  fever." 

"We've  got  to  rouse  her  some  way,"  said 
the  Doctor. 

"Oh,  if  we  could  only  find  Allan  John," 


RAINY   WEEK  209 

cried  the  Bride.  "Allan  John  —  and  his 
whistle,"  she  supplemented  with  almost  shame 
faced  playfulness. 

My  Husband  and  George  Keets  tore  off  to 
town  in  the  little  car !  They  raked  the  streets, 
the  hotels,  the  telegraph  offices,  the  railroad 
station,  God  knows  what  before  they  found 
him.  But  they  did  find  him.  That's  all  that 
really  matters! 

It  was  ten  o'clock  at  night  before  they  all 
reached  home  again.  Allan  John  asked  only 
one  question  as  he  crossed  the  threshold.  His 
forehead  was  puckered  with  perplexity. 

"Is  —  everybody  —  in  the  world  going  to 
die?"  he  said. 

They  took  him  directly  to  the  May  Girl's 
room  and  put  him  down  in  a  chair  just 
opposite  her  bed,  with  the  whistle  in  his  hands. 
"Spring  and  Youth  and  the  Pipes  of  Pan!" 
But  such  a  sorry  Pan!  All  the  youth  that 
was  left  in  him  seemed  to  have  been  wrung  out 
anew  by  this  latest  horror.  In  the  grayness 
of  him,  the  hopelessness,  the  pain,  he  might 
have  been  fifty,  sixty,  himself,  instead  of  the 
scant  twenty-eight  or  thirty  years  that  he 
doubtless  was.  A  little  bit  shakily  he  lifted 
the  whistle  to  his  lips. 


210  RAINY   WEEK 

"Not  that  I  put  a  great  deal  of  credence  in 
it,"  admitted  the  Doctor.  "But  if  you  say  it 
was  a  sound — a  signal  that  she  had  been 
waiting  for " 

Softly  Allan  John  fluted  the  silver  note. 

A  little  shiver — a  struggle,  passed  across 
the  figure  on  the  bed. 

"Again!"  prompted  the  Doctor. 

Once  more  Allan  John  lifted  the  whistle  to 
his  lips. 

The  May  Girl  opened  her  eyes  and  struggled 
vainly  to  raise  herself  on  her  elbow.  When 
she  saw  Allan  John  a  vague  sort  of  astonish 
ment  flushed  across  her  face  and  an  odd 
apologetic  little  laugh  slipped  weakly  from 
her  lips. 

"I — I  came  just  as  soon  as  I  could,  Allan 
John,"  she  said,  and  sinking  back  into  her 
pillows  began  quite  unexpectedly  to  cry.  It 
was  the  Doctor  himself  who  sat  by  her  side 
and  wiped  her  tears  away. 

Ann  Woltor  shared  the  watches  with  me 
through  the  rest  of  the  night.  Allan  John 
never  left  the  room.  Towards  dawn  I  sent 
even  Ann  Woltor  to  her  sleep  and  Allan  John 
and  I  met  the  new  day  alone.  By  the  time  it 
was  really  light  the  May  Girl,  weak  as  she  was, 


RAINY   WEEK  211 

seemed  to  have  recovered  a  certain  amount  of 
talkativeness.  Eecognizing  thoroughly  the 
presence  and  activity  of  both  my  hands  and 
my  feet,  she  seemed  to  ignore  entirely  the 
existence  of  either  my  eyes  or  my  ears.  Her 
puzzled  wonderments  were  directed  at  Allan 
John  alone. 

"Allan  John — Allan  John,"  I  heard  her  call 
softly. 

"Yes,"  said  Allan  John. 

"It's  a  lie,"  said  the  May  Girl,  "what 
people  say  about  drowning,  that  as  you  go 
down  you  remember  every  little  teeny  weeny 
thing  that  has  ever  happened  to  you  in  your 
life!  All  your  past,  I  mean!  All  the  dread 
ful — wicked  things  that  you've  ever  donet 
Oh,  it's  an  awful  lie!" 

"Is  it?"  said  Allan  John. 

"Yes,  it  certainly  is;"  attested  the  May 
Girl.  "Why,  I  never  even  remembered  the 
day  I  bit  my  grandmother." 

"N — o,"  shivered  Allan  John. 

"No,  indeed!"  insisted  the  May  Girl.  "The 
only  things  that  I  thought  of  were  the  things 
I  had  planned  to  do!  —  The  —  The  —  PLANS 
that  were  drowning  with  me!  One  of  them," 
she  flushed  suddenly,  "one  of  the  plans  I 


212  RAINY   WEEK 

mean — I  didn't  seem  to  care  at  all  when  I 
saw  it  go  down — and  the  plan  about  going  to 
Europe  some  time.  Oh,  I  don't  think  that 
suffered  so  terribly.  But  the  farm.  The 
farm  I  was  planning  to  have.  The  cows. 
The  horses.  The  dogs.  The  chickens.  The 
rabbits.  Why,  Allan  John,  I  counted  seven 
teen  rabbits!"  Very  softly  to  herself  she  be 
gan  to  cry  again. 

"S — s — h.  S — s — h,"  cautioned  Allan  John. 
"Things  that  have  never  happened  you  know 
can't  die." 

"Of  that,"  reflected  the  May  Girl  through 
her  tears,  "I  am — not  so — perfectly  sure.  Is 
— is  it  going  to  clear  up?"  she  asked  quite 
irrelevantly. 

"Oh,  yes,  surely!7'  rallied  Allan  John.  He 
He  would  have  told  her  it  was  Chirstmas  I 
think  if  he  had  really  thought  that  that  was 
what  she  wanted  him  to  say.  Very  expedi- 
tiously  instead  he  began  to  shine  up  the  silver 
whistle  with  the  corner  of  his  handkerchief. 

With  an  almost  amusing  solemnity  the  May 
Girl  lay  and  watched  the  proceeding.  Under 
the  heavy  fringe  of  her  lashes  her  eyes  looked 
very  shy.  Then  so  gently,  so  childishly,  that 
even  Allan  John  didn't  wince  till  it  was  all 


RAINY  WEEK  213 

over,  she  asked  him  the  question  that  no  other 
person  in  the  world  probably  could  have  asked 
him  at  that  moment,  and  lived. 

"Allan  John,"  she  asked,  "do  you  suppose 
that  you  will  ever  marry  again?" 

"Oh,  my  God,  no!"  gasped  Allan  John. 

"Men — do,"  mused  the  May  Girl. 

"Men  do,"  conceded  Allan  John.  With  the 
sweat  starting  on  his  brow  he  jumped  up  and 
strode  to  the  window.  From  the  window  he 
turned  back  slowly  with  a  curious  look  of 
perplexity  on  his  face.  "Why — do  you  ask — 
that?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  said  the  May  Girl. 
"I  was  just  wondering,"  she  sighed. 

"Wondering  what?"  said  Allan  John. 

"Wondering,"  mused  the  May  Girl,  "if  you 
would  ever  want  to  marry  me." 

For  a  moment  Allan  John  did  not  seem  to 
understand — for  a  moment  he  gazed  aghast 
at  the  May  Girl's  impassive  face.  "Why — 
child,"  he  stammered. 

"Why  Honey-Dear,"  I  intercepted  wildly. 

It  was  the  strangest  wooing  I  ever  saw  or 
dreamed  of.  The  wooing  by  a  person  who 
didn't  even  know  she  was  wooing — of  a  person 
who  didn't  even  know  he  was  being  wooed. 


214  RAINY   WEEK 

"Well — all  right — perhaps  it  doesn't  mat 
ter,"  said  the  May  Girl.  "I  was  only  think 
ing  how  sad  it  would  be  —  if  Allan  John  ever 
did  need  me  for  his  wife  and  I  was  already 
married  to  somebody  else/' 

When  the  Doctor  came  at  noon  he  reported 
with  eminent  satisfaction  a  decided  improve 
ment  in  both  his  patients.  Claude  Kennil- 
worth,  contrary  to  one's  natural  expectations, 
was  proving  himself  an  ideal  patient  despite 
his  painful  injury — which  he  steadfastly  re 
fused  to  acknowledge. 

Even  the  May  Girl's  more  subtle  and  mysti 
fying  complications  seemed  to  have  cleared  up 
most  astonishingly,  he  felt,  since  his  previous 
visit. 

1  'Oh,  she's  coming  out  all  right,"  he  assured 
us.  "Fresh  air,  plenty  of  range,  freedom 
from  all  emotional  concern  or  distress,"  were 
the  key-notes  of  his  advice.  "She's  only  a 
baby,  grown  woman-sized  in  an  all  too  brief 
eighteen  years,"  he  averred. 

Words,  phrases,  judgments,  rioted  only  too 
confusedly  through  my  mind  that  was  already 
so  inordinately  perplexed  with  the  whole  cha 
otic  situation. 

As  I  said  "good-bye,"  and  turned  back  from 


RAINY   WEEK  215 

the  front  door,  I  was  surprised  to  see  both 
my  Husband  and  Ann  Woltor  standing  close 
beside  me.  The  constrained  expressions  on 
their  faces  startled  me. 

"You  heard  what  the  Doctor  said,"  I  ex 
claimed.  "You  heard  his  exact  words — *  great 
big  overgrown  baby,'  he  said.  l Ought  to  be 
turned  out  to  play  in  a  sand-pile  for  at  least 
two  years  more.'  Just  a  baby,  I  protested, 
"And  she'll  be  tending  her  own  babies  before 
the  two  years  are  over !  They  are  planning  to 
marry  her  in  September  you  know  to  a  man 
old  enough  to  be  her  grandfather — almost.  To 
Doctor  Brawne,"  I  stormed! 

"To  whom?"  gasped  Ann  Woltor.  Her 
face  was  suddenly  livid.  "To  whom?" 

A  horrid  chill  went  through  me.  "What's 
Doctor  Brawne  to  you?"  I  asked. 

"It's  time  you  told  her,"  interposed  my 
Husband,  quietly. 

"What  is  Doctor  Brawne  to  you!"  I  de 
manded. 

"Doctor  Brawne?  Nothing!"  cried  Ann 
Woltor.  "But  the  girl — the  girl  is  my  girl — 
my  own  little  girl — my  own  big  little  girl." 

"What!"  I  gasped.     "What!"  As  though 


216  RAINY   WEEK 

my  knees  had  turned  to  straw  I  sank  into  the 
nearest  chair. 

With  the  curious  exultancy  of  a  long  strain 
finally  relaxed,  I  saw  Ann  Woltor's  immobile 
face  flame  suddenly  with  amusement. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  talking  just  weather 
with  your  husband  all  that  first  harrowing  day 
and  evening?  In  the  carl  In  the  bungalow? 
Oh,  no — not  weather!"  she  exclaimed.  "Not 
even  just  the  'May  Girl,'  as  you  call  her,  but 
—  everything!  Your  husband  discovered  it 
that  first  morning  in  the  car,"  she  annotated 
hurriedly.  "I  dropped  my  watch.  It  had  a 
picture  in  it.  A  picture  of  May  taken  last 
year.  Dr.  Brawne  sent  it  to  me." 

"Yes,  but  Dr.  Brawne?"  I  puzzled. 

"Oh,  I  knew  that  May  was  to  be  married," 
she  frowned.  "And  to  a  man  a  good  deal 
older  than  herself.  Dr.  Brawne  wrote  me  that. 
But  what  he  quite  neglected  to  mention, — " 
once  again  the  frown  deepened,  "was  that 
the  old  man  was  himself.  I  like  Dr.  Brawne. 
He  is  a  very  brilliant  man.  But  I  certainly 
do  not  approve  of  him  as  my  daughter's  hus 
band.  There  are  reasons.  One  need  not  go 
into  them  now,"  she  acknowledged.  "At  least 
they  do  not  specially  concern  his  age.  My 


RAINY  WEEK  217 

daughter  would  hardly  be  happy  with  a  boy 
I  think.  Boys  do  not  usually  like  simplicity. 
It  takes  a  mature  man  to  appreciate  sim 
plicity." 

"Yes,  but  the  discovery?"  I  fretted.  "Your 
own  discovery? — Just  when?" 

"In  the  train  of  course,  coming  down  that 
first  night!"  cried  Ann  Woltor.  "I  thought 
I  should  go  mad.  I  thought  at  every  station 
I  would  jump  off.  And  then  Rollins 's  bun 
gling  remark  the  next  day  about  my  tooth  gave 
me  the  chance,  as  I  supposed,  to  get  away. 
Except  for  that  awkward  accident  to  my 
watch  I  should  have  gotten  away.  Your  hus 
band  implored  me  for  my  own  sake,  for  every 
one  9s  sake,  to  stop  and  consider.  There  was 
so  much  to  consider.  I  had  all  my  proofs 
with  me,  my  letters,  my  papers,  my  marriage 
certificate.  We  went  to  the  Bungalow.  We 
thrashed  it  all  out.  I  was  still  mad  to  get 
away.  I  had  no  other  wish  in  the  world  ex 
cept  to  get  away!  Your  husband  presuaded 
me  that  my  duty  was  here — to  watch  my  girl 
— to  get  acquainted  with  my  girl — before  I 
even  so  much  as  attempted  meeting  my  other 
problems.  I  was  very  rattled.  I  left  my 
broken  watch  in  the  bungalow!  The  picture 


218  RAINY   WEEK 

was  still  in  it!  That's  why  I  went  back!  I 
wasn't  sure  eyen  then  that  I  would  disclose 
my  identity  even  to  my  daughter!  For  that 
reason  alone  I  made  your  husband  promise 
that  he  would  not  betray  my  secret  even  to 
you.  If  I  decided  to  tell — all  right.  But  I 
wished  no  such  decision  forced  upon  me!" 

"Oh,  Ann,  Ann  dear,"  I  cried,  "don't  tell 
me  any  more,  you've  suffered  enough.  Just 
Rollins 's  bungling  alone — the  impudence  of 
him !" 

"Rollins? — Rollins?"  intercepted  that  pesti 
ferous  gentleman's  voice  suddenly.  "Do  I 
hear  my  name  bandied  by  festive  voices?"  In 
another  moment  the  Pest  himself  stood  beside 
us. 

My  Husband  is  by  no  means  a  swearing 
man,  but  I  distinctly  heard  from  his  unwonted 
lips  at  that  moment  a  muttered  blasphemy  that 
would  make  a  stevedore  blush  for  shame. 

Despite  all  her  terrible  stress  and  strain 
Ann  Woltor  smiled — actually  smiled. 

My  Husband  gasped.  The  cause  of  that 
gasp  was  only  too  evident.  Once  again  we  saw 
Rollins 's  ominous  gaze  fixed  with  unalterable 
intent  on  Ann  Woltor 's  face.  What  was  meant 


RAINY   WEEK  219 

to  be  an  ingratiating  smile  quickened  suddenly 
in  his  eyes. 

"Truly,  Miss  Woltor,"  he  said,  "tell  me, 
why  don't  you  get  it  fixed!" 

For  an  instant  I  thought  Ann  Woltor  would 
scream.  For  an  instant  I  thought  Ann  Woltor 
would  faint,  then  quicker  than  chain  lighting, 
right  there  before  our  eyes  we  saw  her  make 
her  great  decision.  It  was  as  though  her  brain 
was  glass  and  we  could  see  its  every  working. 

"All  right,"  said  Ann  Woltor,  very  quietly. 
"All  right — you — Damn  fool — I  will  tell  you! 
I  will  tell  everybody!" 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  I  saw  Rollins 
stagger ! 

But  Rollins  could  not  remain  prostrate  even 
under  such  a  rebuff  as  this. 

"Why — er — thank  you — thank  you  very 
much,"  he  rallied  with  his  first  returning 
breath.  "Shall  I— shall  I  call  the  others?" 

"By  all  means,  call  them  quickly,"  said 
Ann  Woltor. 

"Oh,  Ann! "I  protested. 

"I  mean  it,"  she  said.  Her  face  was 
strangely  quiet.  "The  time  has  come — I've 
made  up  my  mind  at  last." 


220  RAINY   WEEK 

From  the  door  of  the  porch  we  heard 
Kollins's  piping  voice. 

"Mr.  Brenswick!  Mr.  Keets!  Kennil- 
worth!  Allan  John! — Come  on!  Miss  Wol- 
tor's  going  to  tell  us  a  story!" 

With  vaguely  responsive  interest,  the  people 
came  trooping  in. 

"A  story ?"  brightened  the  Bride.  "Oh, 
lovely — what  is  it  about?" 

"The  story  of  my  broken  tooth,"  said  Ann 
Woltor,  very  trenchantly,  "told  by  request — 
Mr.  Rollins 's  request,"  she  added. 

With  a  single  comprehensive  glance  at  my 
tortured  face  —  at  my  Husband's  —  at  Ann 
Woltor 's,  Claude  Kennilworth  turned  sharply 
on  his  heel  and  started  to  leave  the  room. 

"What,  don't  you  want  to  hear  the  story?" 
piped  Rollins. 

"No,  not  by  a  damn  sight,"  snapped  Ken 
nilworth. 

"But  I  want  you  to  hear  it,"  said  Ann  Wol 
tor,  still  in  that  deadly  quiet  but  absolutely 
firm  voice. 

George  Keets  *s  lips  were  drawn  suddenly  to 
a  mere  thin  white  line. 

"One  has  no  desire  to  intrude,  Miss  Wol 
tor,"  he  protested. 


RAINY   WEEK  221 

"It  is  no  intrusion,"  said  Aim  Woltor. 

For  a  single  hesitating  moment  her  sombre 
eyes  swept  the  waiting  group.  Then,  without 
further  break  or  pause,  she  plunged  into  her 
narrative. 

"I  am  the  May  GirPs  mother,"  she  said. 
"I  ran  away  from  the  May  Girl's  father.  I 
ran  away  with  another  man.  I  don't  pretend 
to  explain  it.  I  don't  pretend  to  condone  it. 
This  is  not  a  discussion  of  ethics — but  a  mere 
statement  of  history.  All  that  I  insist  upon 
your  understanding — is  that  I  ran  away  from 
a  legalized  life  of  incessant  fault-finding  and 
criticism  to  an  unlegalized  life  of  absolute 
approval  and  love. 

"I  cannot  even  admit,  after  the  first  big 
wrench,  of  course,  that  I  greatly  regretted  the 
little  child  I  left  behind.  Mothers  are  always 
supposed  to  regret  such  things  I  know,  but  I 
was  not  perhaps  a  normal  mother.  I  suffered, 
of  course,  but  it  was  a  suffering  that  I  could 
stand.  I  could  not  stand,  it  seems,  the  suffer 
ing  of  living  with  my  child's  father. 

"My  husband  followed  us  after  a  few 
months,  not  so  much  for  outraged  love,  I 
think,  as  for  vindictiveness.  We  met  in  a 
cafe,  the  three  of  us.  My  husband  and  my 


222  RAINY  WEEK 

lover  were  both  cool-blooded  men.  My  lover 
was  a  Quaker  who  had  never  yet  lifted  his 
hand  against  any  man.  The  two  men  started 
arguing.  I  came  of  a  hot-blooded  family.  I 
had  never  seen  men  arguing  only — about  a 
woman  before.  More  than  that  I  was  vain. 
I  was  foolish.  The  biggest  portrait  painter 
of  the  hour  had  chosen  me  for  what  he  con 
sidered  would  be  his  masterpiece.  I  taunted 
my  lover  and  my  husband  with  the  fact  that 
neither  of  them  loved  me.  John  Stoltor  struck 
my  husband.  It  was  the  first  blow.  My  hus 
band  made  a  furious  attack  on  him.  I  tried 
to  intervene.  He  struck  me  instead,  with  such 
damage  as  you  note.  Enraged  beyond  all 
sanity  at  the  sight,  John  Stoltor  killed  him. 

"Even  then,  so  overwrought  as  I  was,  so  be 
wildered  with  my  mouth  all  cut  and  bleeding, 
I  snatched  up  a  mirror  to  gauge  the  extent  of 
my  ruin.  John  Stoltor  spoke  to  me — the  only 
harsh  words  of  his  life. 

"Your  damage  can  be  repaired  in  an  hour," 
he  said — "but  his — mine — never  I" 

"It  was  at  that  moment  they  took  him  away 
— almost  fifteen  years — it  has  been.  He  did 
not  have  to  pay  the  extreme  penalty.  There 
were  extenuating  circumstances  the  judge 


RAINY   WEEK  223 

thought.  His  time  expires  next  month.  I  am 
waiting  for  him.  I  have  been  waiting  for 
fifteen  years.  At  least  he  will  see  that  I  have 
subjugated  my  vanity.  I  swore  that  I  would 
never  mend  my  damage  until  I  could  help  him 
mend  his." 

With  a  little  gesture  of  fatigue  she  turned 
to  Rollins.  "This  is  the  story  of  the  broken 
tooth, "  she  finished,  quite  abruptly. 

"Wasn't  Allan  John  even  listening?"  I 
thought.  With  everyone  else's  eyes  fairly 
glued  to  Ann  Woltor's  arresting  face,  even 
now,  at  the  supreme  climax  of  her  narrative, 
his  eyes  seemed  focussed  far  away.  Instinct 
ively  I  followed  his  gaze.  At  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  her  arms  holding  tight  to  the  banisters 
for  support,  sat  the  May  Girl! 

In  the  almost  breathless  moment  that  en 
sued,  Rollins  swallowed  twice  only  too  au 
dibly. 

"All  the  same" — insisted  Rollins  hesitating 
ly,  "all  the  same — I  really  do  think  that " 

With  a  little  cry  that  might  have  meant 
almost  anything,  the  Bride  jumped  up  sud 
denly  and  threw  her  arms  around  Ann  Wol 
tor's  neck. 

Even  at  twilight  time  everybody  was  still 


224  RAINY  WEEK 

discussing  the  problem  of  the  May  Girl.  Cer 
tainly  there  was  plenty  of  problem  to  discuss. 

The  question  of  an  innocent  young  girl — on 
the  very  verge  of  her  young  womanhood.  The 
question  of  a  practically  unknown  mother.  The 
question  of  a  shattered  unrelated  man  coming 
fresh  to  them  from  fifteen  years  in  prison.  The 
question  even  of  Dr.  Brawne.  Everybody  had 
his  or  her  own  impractical  or  unsatisfactory 
solution  to  suggest.  Everybody,  that  is,  ex 
cept  Allan  John. 

Allan  John  as  usual  had  nothing  to  say. 

Upstairs,  in  the  privacy  of  her  own  room, 
Ann  Woltor  and  the  May  Girl,  without  undue 
emotion,  were  very  evidently  threshing  out  the 
problem  for  themselves. 

Yet  when  they  came  down  and  joined  us 
just  before  supper-time,  it  was  only  too  evi 
dent  from  their  tired  faces  that  they  had 
reached  no  happier  conclusion  than  ours. 

George  Keets  and  my  Husband  brought  the 
May  Girl  down.  Claude  Kennilworth,  quite  in 
his  old  form,  save  for  his  splinted  arm,  super 
intended  the  expedition. 

"It's  her  being  so  beastly  long,"  scolded 
Kennilworth,  "that  makes  the  job  so  hard!" 


RAINY  WEEK  225 

In  the  depths  of  the  big  leather  chair  the 
May  Girl  didn't  look  very  long  to  me,  but  she 
did  look  astonishingly  frail. 

With  a  gesture  of  despair,  .Arm  Woltor 
turned  to  her  companions,  as  if  she  had  read 
our  thoughts. 

"There  isn't  any  solution,"  she  said. 

Why  all  of  us  turned  just  then  to  Allan 
John  I  don't  know,  but  it  became  perfectly 
evident  to  everyone  at  that  moment  that  Allan 
John  was  about  to  speak. 

"It  seems  quite  clear  to  me,"  said  Allan 
John  simply.  "It  seems  quite  natural  to  me 
somehow,"  he  added,  "that  you  should  all 
come  home  with  me  to  my  ranch  in  Montana. 
The  little  girl  needs  it — the  big  outdoors — the 
animals— the  life  she  craves.  You  need  it," 
he  said,  turning  to  Ann  Woltor,  "the  peace  of 
it,  the  balm  of  it.  But  most  of  all  John  Stoltor 
will  need  it  when  it  is  time  for  him  to  come. 
Far  from  prying  eyes,  safe  from  intrusive 
questionings,  that  certainly  will  be  the  perfect 
chance  for  you  all  to  plan  out  your  new  lives 
together.  How  much  it  would  mean  to  me 
not  to  have  to  go  back  alone  I  need  not  say." 

Startled   at   his   insight,   compelled   by  his 


226  RAINY   WEEK 

sincerity,  Ann  Woltor  saw  order  dawn  sud 
denly  out  of  the  chaos  of  her  emotions. 

From  her  frankly  quivering  lips  a  single 
protest  wavered. 

"But  Allan  John,"  she  cried,  "you've  only 
known  us  four  days." 

Across  Allan  John's  haggard  face  flickered 
the  faintest  possible  suggestion  of  a  smile. 

"I  was  a  stranger — and  you  took  me  in." 

With  the  weirdest  possible  sense  of  super 
natural  benediction,  the  dark  room  flooded 
suddenly  with  light.  From  the  window,  just 
beyond  me,  I  heard  my  Husband's  astonished 
exclamation : 

"Look,  Mary,"  he  cried,  "come  quickly." 

At  an  instant  I  was  at  his  side. 

Across  the  murky  western  sky  the  tumultu 
ous  storm-clouds  had  broken  suddenly  into 
silver  and  gold.  In  a  blaze  of  glory  the  set 
ting  sun  fairly  streamed  into  our  faces. 

Struggling  up  from  the  depths  of  her  chair 
to  view  it — even  the  May  Girl's  pallid  cheeks 
caught  up  their  share  of  the  radiance. 

"Oh,  Allan  John,"  she  laughed,  "just  see 
what  you  have  done — you've  shined  up  all  the 
world." 


RAINY   WEEK  227 

With  a  curiously  significant  expression  on 
his  face  my  Husband  leaned  toward  me  quickly. 

"Ring  down  the  curtain,  quick,"  he  whis 
pered.  "The  Play's  done — Rainy  Week  is 
over." 


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